


Sionnach

by fabricdragon



Series: Amnesia Shuffle [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Debts, Developing Relationship, Fake Character Death, Friendship, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Possibly Pre-Slash, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Temporary Amnesia, Until it isn't, gratitude, possibilities
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2018-12-24 16:06:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12016260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/pseuds/fabricdragon
Summary: Greg Lestrade tried to find the drug  dealers whose drugs were  killing junkies... Something went very wrong, and an old debt finally gets repaid.Takes place over several different points in the canon of  Sherlock BBC (from pre-canon  on)This is a WIP and will be updated  as i get to it





	1. The Shepherd and the Lion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mickie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickie/gifts).



He was chained to a chair in the dark room. _They were going to kill me, of course–the main question was: why am I still alive?_ They’d beaten him again, but right now he didn’t care much because they’d given him a drug that felt glorious. They came back, and they liked it that he giggled when they hit him; they thought it was the drugs. _I wonder how many I can kill on the way down?_

He got dragged upstairs where there were more men waiting–something about getting some use out of him before he died. _It was just so stupid, dying like this: just another rent boy vanishing in London somewhere. I wonder if the blood will make a pretty mess…_

One of the men said something about being first, about not wanting him all used up. He was dragged to one of the bedrooms and cuffed to the headboard. He giggled again as the men left him with their customer. The man wore leathers like he lived in them– _motorcycle_ –and had shaggy brown hair, and his knuckles were scarred from years of fights. _His nose was pretty good, though; he must win a lot of them._

The leer on the man’s face fell away and he looked at him–he suddenly looked worried and sick–“Are you alright?”

“No, they hit me pretty hard and drugged me to make me soft–I bite.” He giggled, “Jokes on them: I still bite.” He looked up at the man, wondering if he should cooperate with this one, make them think he was harmless… “You…” He frowned up at the man with the soft eyes, “You… don’t belong here.” _He had looked like he did, but he didn’t._

“No.” The man looked worried.  “I don’t know how to get you out without us both being killed, kid.”

“Can you unlock my wrists?”

The man produced a handcuff key and unlocked him. “Getting you out will blow my cover, damn it, but I can’t let you–”

“An honest cop and an honest Englishman, all in one–never imagined. Don’t worry, copper, you get to keep your cover. Sorry about the scar, though.”

“What?” he frowned. “I don’t understand?”

He lunged forward and bit him in the shoulder–not the throat–tearing into him, drawing blood, and tasting the wonderful metallic battery taste washing over his tongue. The man had been unprepared so the fight was brief, and it wasn’t long before he’d managed to beat his head into the bed frame.

He killed two men on his way out before vanishing into the dark. _Who could blame the poor undercover cop for my escape? Hadn’t I half killed him, after all, and weren’t there more than a few men with my teeth marks on them? There’d be no blaming him for what had happened._


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes had died almost a year ago now, but cases like this made Greg miss him so much more–he would have solved it just to solve it; for that matter, especially after John had come along, he might have solved it because he gave a damn. Someone was selling tainted drugs and people were dying, but of course no one cared because it was just junkies; so here he sat with orders to stay out of it until some rich white kid took the wrong drugs and someone suddenly cared.

His career had never recovered, after Sherlock–after everything. He suspected the only reason he still had a job at all was Mycroft Holmes. He should play this by the book, utterly, and wait until he had permission…

He looked at the file with the fifteen-year-old girl in the morgue: just a whore; just a junkie; just another toss-away kid on the street…

He put in for a leave of absence and went looking on his own. He wasn’t Sherlock Holmes, but he was certain he could find them.

He did.

Or rather, they found him. They shot him up with something and dragged him off to die behind a club…

He sank down into the dark, wondering why the garbage suddenly smelled like Mycroft’s cologne…

*

His woke up to a clean bed and the smell of coffee. He tried to sit up and the room spun–he realized he had an IV–a grim looking male nurse stopped him. He was in a hospital ward with a few other beds, drifting in and out of consciousness, with nurses and doctors and people generally treating him like trash–well, most of them did. One of the nurses was very careful with him and seemed a bit skittish. When he was reliably awake the skittish fellow brought him coffee, so he must be alright.

They asked him his name and he honestly couldn’t tell them; for some reason, they didn’t seem to believe him. A policeman came in and barely took his statement, called him a liar, and spit in his coffee when no one else was looking; he tried to go off the bed after him and the officer just laughed and walked out…

The skittish nurse slipped in right afterwards and frowned at him. “You… honestly don’t know who you are? Or you just aren’t telling?”

“I– I have no idea. I remember a dumpster and then here.” He frowned, “That officer… He shouldn’t behave like that…”

“They think you’re a junkie, just didn’t pay up–or maybe got rolled after you OD’ed–we get a lot of that.”

“Doesn’t matter; a cop should be getting my statement and trying to help, even if I was a junkie…” Images of a hollow-eyed raven-haired man screaming about murder flashed through his mind. The skittish nurse got him a new coffee and left.

Some time went by as he faded in and out, and they were talking about sending him to jail until the swelling in his hands went down enough to get fingerprints, when suddenly a man walked in who took command of the whole room.

“I believe you have my brother Greg here. I’ve come to take him home.”

He tried to tell them that he didn’t know this man any more than he knew any of the rest of them, but once again they didn’t listen–or didn’t care. Some lawyer sort took everyone out to do paperwork, leaving his “brother” and the skittish nurse in the room with him.

“Uh… Shouldn’t I recognize you if you’re my brother?”

In a rather different tone than he’d used before, the man asked, “Do you even know who you are, Greg?”

That stopped him. He frowned, “No…”

“But your name IS Greg, right?”

He turned that over in his mind. _Yes… Yes, that sounded right_. “Yes, yes it is.”

“Then just trust me.”

…

He was driven away by his “brother”, who wouldn’t answer any questions. They drove to a car park where a car with darkened windows _–that was familiar_ –was waiting.

His “brother” said, “Here’s your ride.”

“I really don’t understand,” Greg sighed but he got into the back of the car. He vaguely heard the driver saying something about “Guess I don’t need to blindfold you” before he fell asleep.

He woke up because a tall man with reddish-blond hair was hauling him out of the car.

“Hmmm?”

“Come on, I want to get you in and find out what the boss wants.”

“Are you my brother now?”

The man laughed, “No.”

“Oh, good. He wasn’t, was he?”

The man smiled a rather thin, crooked smile–Greg sort of liked the fellow, he reminded him of…. something–“No, he wasn’t.”

“I like you, but I don’t know why.” Greg tried to smile up at him but he was having a lot of trouble keeping his feet under him.

“You do?”

“Yeah.”

“You got hit on the head WAY too hard, mate.”

He got taken through a living area that screamed money and into what he thought must have been a small storage room before someone re-outfitted it as a sort of hospital room.

A voice from outside the room said, “Get him a shower, Tiger.”

“So we aren’t working him over?” The man sounded a bit relieved.

“No… Problem?”

“Well… He said he liked me? I figure he must have been hit pretty hard…”

“He likes the strangest people…” The voice sounded amused. “You’re in good company.”

He had a vague recollection of being held up in the biggest, nicest shower he had ever seen by a man who was all scars and muscle; then his head hit the pillow and he was gone.

When he woke up he wasn’t surprised to find an IV, even though he didn’t remember getting one. His one arm was strapped down– _easy to get out of, probably just to keep the IV from being pulled accidentally_ –and he was wearing what were without doubt the most comfortable pajamas he’d ever worn.

Shortly after he woke up, the tall man came in with a breakfast tray. Greg looked him over: _reddish-blond hair, tall, fit–had that SAS vibe about him._

“So what do I call you?” Greg asked.

“Depends. What do you remember?”

Greg thought about it. “You got me from my fake brother at a car port… the other voice called you Tiger…”

“Before the hospital?”

Greg shook his head and then winced faintly, “I have… some weird names and images in my head, but I don’t know how they fit…”

“Like what?”

“All this… the car with the dark windows, this place, it’s all… like it fits, but I don’t remember it exactly.”

“Okay.”

“The word Mycroft keeps popping up when I–”

“You… uh… might not want to mention that name,” Tiger said uneasily.

“It’s a name?” Greg was shocked. “You mean like a person’s name?”

“Oh… Yeah, it is. Still… don’t mention it if you can.”

Greg’s face fell. “Oh. I thought it was a cologne…”

There was a sudden manic giggle from the other side of the door. It sounded like something he should remember, but didn’t.

Tiger looked at the door uneasily. “Right, can you eat on your own?”

“I think so?”

“Call bell is there,” Tiger indicated. “Eat, rest, we’ll see if any more comes back.”

He ate. Tiger came in and drew blood in a practiced fashion and changed out his IV. A short while later Tiger asked him questions and then told him what he was going to do. Greg objected to being catheterized but felt an immense amount of relief once he was…

“Damn hospital,” Tiger grumbled. “Could have damaged your kidneys; they should have done more.”

“The only one who cared was the grim nurse–I don’t think they cared, but they were professional–and the skittish one that brought me coffee.”

“Boss won’t like any of this.”

“At least they didn’t act like that damn bad cop.” Greg really felt angry about that.

Tiger watched his hands flex, “What damn bad cop?”

“Came in to take my report: didn’t listen, didn’t believe me, and then the bastard spat in my coffee!”

Tiger glanced at a corner of the room and shook his head, “That’s bad behavior.”

“Cops like that… they… they…” Greg frowned, “I don’t know, but it’s bad.”

Tiger went to leave, then stopped and asked, “You remember anything else? From before?”

“A lot of impressions of drugs, and people lying in… places that sold drugs.” Greg frowned, “I’ve been in a lot of them, but… I wasn’t one of them.”

“It’s a start.”


	3. Chapter 3

Sebastian Moran came out slowly and cleaned up the food tray and the medical supplies. He reported in to Moriarty who was sitting in his office with his computer open.

“So Tiger, the officer who took his report–if you can call it that–is this fellow…. And I have all the nurses that tended to him, but he said the ‘grim one’ was all right and I don’t know which one that was…”

“Sir? May I ask you a question?”

“Always so polite, Tiger,” Jim looked at him and nodded regally.

“This guy…” he took a deep breath. “If you aren’t letting him go, I would prefer it if you assigned him another guard.”

“Why Sebastian, are you getting fond of him?” Jim’s voice was teasing– _that can go lethal damn fast._

“He… always seemed like one of the better cops…”

Jim’s expression went utterly neutral and his voice went to his professionally bland voice, “He’s one of the only cops I ever met who started honest, stayed honest, and actually gives a damn about people–even lousy junkies and whores. He’s not to be harmed except by my express orders.”

Sebastian tried to keep his sigh of relief internal, “Yes, sir.”

Jim waved at the computer, “Do you think Greg would prefer to handle this himself?”

“Depending on how much his memory recovers, sir? Probably.” Sebastian tried to think of a way to ask…

“Stop fidgeting and spit it out, Sebastian,” Jim drawled. “I can smell the circuits burning from here.”

“Why… Why bring him here? Why not just take him home–his house, or back to his people?”

Jim sighed and scrubbed at his face; he looked tired suddenly. “Because there are oh-so-many dirty cops that are just looking for a chance to take him down, and so very many criminals that would take a shot–and that’s in addition to everyone who wants after him because of Sherlock–and if he can’t defend himself he won’t last a day.” Jim sighed, “And Mycroft can’t look after him because he’s out of the country.” His usual hard look dropped back on his face, “We’ll throw him back when he has a chance. Get out.”

…

Greg dozed and woke up. At some point he saw the guard–Tiger–putting something in his IV.

“What’s that?”

“Boss finally got a few chemists to go over your blood tests–that should help you recover.” He smiled, “I’d tell you what it is, but honestly I have no idea–I’m a decent medic, but not a specialist.”

Greg waved at his arm, “You did a fair sight better on the IV than the hospital.”

“Yeah, well… I wasn’t impressed with that hospital.” He sat down, “Have you remembered anything else?”

“A few things? I don’t think they go together, though.”

“Tell me?”

“I remember a tall man: six foot, black hair, light eyes–a junkie? ranting about a murder. And then that same man looking all posh, standing at a murder scene and…” Greg smiled fondly and mimicked Sherlock’s intonations, “Really, Anderson, if you were any more wrong you would’ve wrapped back around to being correct!”

“Ouch!” Sebastian grinned.

“Yeah, I don’t know who Anderson is, but… the name was familiar. I know the tall thin man, but… I can’t remember his name.” Greg looked off at the wall, “He’s important, somehow.”

“I know who you mean, but… I think it’s better I don’t…”

“Contaminate the evidence? Yeah.”

“Anything else?”

“Remember I said the car with the dark windows was familiar?”

Sebastian blinked a bit, “Oh yeah, you did.”

“I remember cars like that, either a lot of them or just one but a lot of times. Sometimes there was a good looking woman texting; sometimes there was a good looking man… sometimes both.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow and nodded, “You aren’t wrong, that I know of.”

“A kitchen table, and coffee… and my… wife? But I don’t… I don’t think she’s dead or anything, but she’s gone…” Greg sighed, “I think I must have been a cop, but… I also remember me and my mates–Don and Rollo and Albert–beating the snot out of some other guys… and why can I remember their names but not other people?”

“I don’t know about those guys. I can try to find out?”

Greg shrugged and yawned, “I’m going to go back to sleep, I think.”

Greg drifted off.

He dreamed about Sherlock, and John–and Mrs. Hudson and his carefully not noticing her “herbal soothers”. He had a horrible nightmare about a cop–his partner–being shot, and his bleeding to death… He saw so many lost kids, and broken bodies…

He woke up screaming.

Tiger was holding him down and a familiar voice was snarling, “For God’s sake, Sebastian, HOLD him!”

Everything spun and he was so very heavy…

He woke up again. The arm that had been hooked up to the IV was now heavily bandaged, and his other arm had the IV in it. His arm HURT and he knew he must have ripped himself up flailing and fighting.

Tiger came in– _Sebastian, he’d been called Sebastian_ –and looked at him warily.

“You, uh, okay again?”

“Yeah… I… remembered my partner being killed: he bled out in my arms before the ambulance could even get there.”

The man flinched. “Oh…” _Military, right: even if he wasn’t a cop, he would understand that._

“I’m sorry if I hurt anyone–I wasn’t really here.”

“Yeah, sometimes I’m still in the sandbox, don’t sweat it.”

“John gets that, too: it’s why we… get along…” Greg blinked in confusion. “John? John Watson… Sherlock… Oh God–he died…” The weight of his death hit him all over again, as though it had just happened. “Why?! God, Sherlock…. WHY?!”

Sebastian fled.

He ran out to the living room only to find Jim sitting there with the monitors open to Greg’s room. He expected Jim to be laughing, or scowling, but instead he was sitting with his head in his hands just looking tired…

“Take him in some soup or something.”

“I… uh… don’t think he’s in any condition–”

“That wasn’t a fucking request.”

Sebastian found some soup, heated it up, and went back in to Greg’s room.

“Boss said you needed soup.” Sebastian unlocked his arm and pulled the tray table over.

“Right.” Greg was apparently equally determined to pretend that hadn’t happened. “So… who are you people?”

“If Boss wanted you to know, he’d tell you, but… you got pulled in because you weren’t safe, and he says you get to go home once you can defend yourself.”

Greg stared at him, “O-kay… It did seem a bit weird for someone planning to hurt me… um… Why can’t you send me home now?”

Sebastian shrugged, “You might get to go home any time–that’s the boss’s call.”

“Do I get to meet him?”

“I doubt it.”

“…right.”

“Look, you’re safe, and you are still pretty bruised up and your memories are a bit shaky, yeah? So just pretend you’re in hospital and I’m a really ugly nurse.”

“Can you answer a question?”

“Errrr… probably not? But you can ask.”

“You don’t have anything to do with the drug pushers I was chasing, do you? The ones killing off all those junkies? Because that’s what I was doing…”

Sebastian blinked at him in confusion, “Well, since I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about–I don’t think so?”

“Fifteen-year-old toss-away, dead in the morgue… She was just the latest. Got told to ignore it.”

“I… really doubt my boss is involved, especially since he rescued you, but I can ask him?”

“Yeah…” Greg sighed, “Is there a telly?”

“No, but I bet I could get one.”

“Any clue how the match went?”

Sebastian perked up and they talked sports for a while.

A voice from outside the door–and the voice was so damn familiar–said, “Tiger? He needs his pain meds.”

“Right!” Sebastian got up and Greg raised his voice, “Did you have anything to do with those drug pushing bastards?”

“No… or not directly. I’m certain we have business associates in common. You said something about a tossaway in the morgue?”

“Buncha kids dead from the crap they’re selling!” Greg tried to sit up and Sebastian just pushed him back down. “No one gives a toss because they’re just whores and junkies, so I took leave to look into it.”

Sebastian was looking really worried toward the door and hissed at him, “Settle DOWN, mate–don’t piss him off.”

After a while, the voice from the other side of the door–softer this time–said, “You haven’t changed at all. Come get his pain meds, Tiger: I’m having a television delivered later.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday to me! (yup, my birthday today)  
> I will be trying to update as many stories as i can when i get back from lunch with my mother and my husband, but this one was ready in the morning!

Greg got a television and a remote, and–after several more bags of something in his IV, pissing like he was a racehorse, and having more blood drawn–Sebastian finally pulled the IV.

“Oh, thank God,” Greg sighed. “I hate those things.”

“Don’t think anyone likes them, mate.”

“Any idea why I’m so tired?” Greg sighed, “I feel like I’m constantly dozing off.”

“Could be the stress from the drugs; could be depression?”

“Wouldn’t I know I was depressed?”

Sebastian just shrugged. “People don’t always. I got things I have to do, so I’m going to get you some things to eat in case I’m not back for dinner, okay?”

“Sure… thanks.”

Sebastian wasn’t back and Greg ate the meal bars and drank the bottled water. It was as he was in the middle of chewing on the meal bar that memories suddenly flooded back and he almost choked to death.

_Trying to study for college courses and work as a policeman; grabbing meal bars or cookies and coffee to live on._

_Sitting on a stakeout with Donovan–eating a meal bar because it had been hours–and trying to ignore the fact that she expected him to make a pass at her._

_Eating a meal bar while he dealt with the fact that an awful lot of the Force wasn’t talking to him anymore–people wondering if he’d known about the fake crimes._

_Mycroft taking the meal bar out of his hands as he picked him up in the car and handing it to his guard? With all the distaste of someone handing off a dead rat, then sitting down to a dinner he could never afford in the Diogenes Club._

Greg reeled backwards. _I’m Greg Lestrade… I used to be a Detective Inspector… I took time off to hunt down these bastards on my own and…_

_Who is Sebastian? Who is his boss? Why?_

Greg searched the room quietly and found a few odds and ends. He went over and jimmied the lock on his door. _Sherlock might have been the better pick pocket but by GOD I can get into any car, door, or what not: a misspent youth had some benefits._

He slipped out into _yeah, this flat or house or… anyway, it SCREAMED money…_

But there was a pistol on the table against the wall–just sitting there, loaded and not locked up. Greg picked it up and wondered about that. He looked at it carefully: _serial numbers gone, police issue type, though._ He walked through the house, wondering what was going on.

He eventually saw into a room like an office, where a brunet man was working on computer. He was in his undershirt– _he had more muscles in his arms than most techs, but he wasn’t a bruiser_ –and a cup of coffee next to him: the mug said “Real Life Disney Villain” on it.

He was about to say something when the sound of a door opening behind him and Sebastian’s voice calling “Boss?” caused the man to turn his chair…

 _It was Moriarty… or Richard Brook… or…_ Greg’s hand came up smoothly with the gun.

Moriarty simply sighed and said, “Well, that’s annoying.”

“Boss…? Oh SHIT! Drop it!”

Moriarty’s face twisted into a mad scowl, “Sebastian! Put that away!”

“But, sir–”

Greg started to turn, and he saw Sebastian holding a pistol. Moriarty’s voice snapped out, “Down on your knees, Tiger, hands on your head, NOW!”

Much to Greg’s shock, the man put the gun back in its holster as he was dropping and put his hands on his head. “Can’t guard you from here…” he grumbled.

Moriarty smirked, “I’m unarmed and my hands are in plain sight; you surrendered; and Greg is completely unable to shoot anyone who isn’t a threat.”

“You’re… him… but… you’re DEAD!” Greg was trying to make his brain work.

“Being dead was boring,” he drawled with an amused smirk, and then he reached out and picked up his coffee. “Put the gun down, Greg.”

“You…”

“Are a dead actor who has never been convicted of anything? Yes?” Moriarty stood up, put the coffee mug down and walked toward him, keeping his hands in sight.

“Fuck,” Greg sighed and flicked the safety back on, lowering the gun. “No, I can’t shoot you.”

Moriarty just held his hand out politely.

“You have GOTTA be kidding me.” Greg stared at him. “You killed Sherlock! You wrecked all of our lives!”

“Amazingly enough, Sherlock killed himself–of course, so did I.” He still had his hand out. Greg could see Sebastian twitching out of the corner of his eye, but the man clearly wasn’t moving until Moriarty told him to.

Then the implications hit him. “Are… you saying Sherlock… isn’t dead?”

“I’m saying his brother is still paying the rent on his apartment even now that John moved out.”

“Grief?”

“Does the Iceman strike you as the sort to grieve by paying rent on an apartment? Or would he have had all those things moved to his house and handed off three months rent and never looked at the street again?”

“You…” He looked down. _That was right. Mycroft had seemed upset, guilty, but it had been over a year and… no, he wouldn’t keep paying for the flat when no one lived there._ Greg looked back up. “Why?”

“Gun,” Moriarty said pleasantly. Greg turned it carefully and handed it over. He could hear Sebastian’s sigh of relief.

“Over your paygrade, Greg: all of it.” He smirked, “But you know Sherlock enjoyed the game.”

“Right up until John–”

Moriarty rolled his eyes, “Puh-leaze… Let’s not bring that up.” He put the gun down next to the coffee mug. “You can get up, Tiger.” Tiger slowly stood up, but he didn’t go for his gun.

“How could you be so sure I wouldn’t shoot you?” Greg asked. It felt like despair. He couldn’t even shoot the man who’d–probably–killed his friend–ruined him, certainly.

“Because you’re one of the few real good cops out there–you’re practically an endangered species.”

“There are a lot of good cops!”

Moriarty sat back down in his chair, looking up at him. “Not really. How many cops would risk their career and maybe their life, not for a mam with a baby carriage or any of the good victims, but for a junkie, a whore, some drugged-out nobody that no one–not even their parents–want? Damn few.”

Something was niggling at the edges of his memory, but he pushed it aside. “So now what?”

“You either stay here as my guest–I don’t recommend it, actually; sooner or later it would blow up–or you swear to never tell anyone who rescued you, we come up with some plausible cover story, and I send you home. Mycroft should be back in the country by now so it’s less likely you’d get shot.”

“Why the hell would I get shot?!”

Moriarty just shook his head, “Think.”

Greg tried to not see it, he really did… but he could tally up the criminals and the crooked cops and figure the odds.

“You couldn’t send me home until I could defend myself…” Greg said quietly, remembering what Sebastian had said.

“Or the Iceman got back, one or the other.”

“Why do you care?”

“Like I said, an honest cop? Practically an endangered species.” Moriarty smirked, “Ask Tiger: I love endangered species.”

And the memory of an Irish lilt and brown hair and dark eyes, handcuffed to a bed and marveling at an honest cop hit him hard enough that his knees buckled.

~

The kid couldn’t have been more than fourteen, small and sharp and Irish with all the wary suspicion of a street kid written on his face–high as a kite, mind you. They were going to hand him around like a damn party favor before they shot him. God knows what he’d done–not paid his protection money or stolen from the boss, probably.

He should have just declined–not into boys, not into used goods, whatever–but he couldn’t leave him to that. It would cost the investigation, and his career, and maybe his life, but…

He’d gotten him into the bedroom–they dragged him in and cuffed him to the bed, at least one of the men acting scared of him–and left him to it.

The kid wasn’t scared… he was marveling at him as though he’d never seen such a thing. “An honest cop and an honest Englishman, all in one–never imagined. Don’t worry, copper, you get to keep your cover. Sorry about the scar, though.” And then he’d ripped his shoulder open to the collar bone with his teeth, and hit Greg’s head against the bedframe, and vanished.

The kid had killed on his way out, but hadn’t killed him–he could have.

He managed to keep his cover: shrieking at the boss “Why the FUCK didn’t you warn me?!” as they tried to stop the bleeding might not have been wise, but it didn’t scream “cop”. He was on antibiotics for ages from the bite–and he’d been paranoid about human bites ever since.

It took over a month more to finish the job, but they’d taken down the organization and Greg had gotten promoted and started being accepted. Having a past full of offenses and rough connections was useful in undercover work. Two major undercover operations later and his name was too well-known: he’d moved and started working up as a detective…

And here he was, and that vicious, brilliant, kid being tossed to a room full of men as a chew toy–was Jim Moriarty, who set up lethal puzzles for Sherlock Holmes, broke into the crown jewels, and walked away clean.

~

“Sorry… about the scar…” Greg whispered, staring, as Sebastian helped him up.

“What?” Sebastian started to ask.

“Not one word.” Moriarty’s eyes were deadly. “Tiger? Leave.”

Sebastian heard that tone of voice, put Greg down on a chair, and left. Moriarty waited until he was gone.

“Don’t make me kill you, copper,” he drawled, his Irish accent far more pronounced, as it had been then, “be a shame to waste the effort.”

“My God… you? We couldn’t find you–couldn’t even find out who you were…”

“Just a toss-away kid, Greg: no one cares about us. So, do you want to settle this drug organization your way? Or would you like them to just vanish? Because I can do that…”

“Am I going to live?”

“As long as you keep your mouth shut, sure, why not? Like I said: I love endangered species.”

Greg stared at him for a long time. “If I catch you doing anything, I’ll run you in.”

“No one catches me, not in decades.”

“I’ll keep my mouth shut about you, about seeing you, but… I won’t cover up any crimes.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to.” Moriarty smiled in amusement–Greg assumed it was amusement.

“Then I won’t turn down information, but they get put away by the book,” Greg said slowly.

“It’s dull, but alright. I’ll get you a report.” Moriarty tilted his head, “What about the hospital, and the bad cop?”

“I’ll deal with it, or I’ll ask Mycroft–”

Jim cackled, “Oh honey… I keep forgetting how naïve you are. If you want it dealt with LEGALLY, make sure you tell Mycroft that–he’s better at vanishing people than I am.”

“What?”

“I spent a few weeks in his personal jail, Greg–I don’t recommend it: no tea and the staff is just so coarse–if he takes a dislike to someone they might prefer to deal with me.”

“But–”

“Do what you like, Greg; just don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He shrugged, “However, with Mycroft back and you well enough to handle a gun, it’s time for you to go home.”

“Mister Moriarty, I don’t–”

“Given that you are the only man with a scar from my teeth that is still alive, Greg, I think you can call me Jim.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to Baker Street.   
> a bit of Mystrade pre slash, and the perils of recovery

Greg walked slowly around the corner onto Baker Street. He made it to the right block then had to stop to rest on a public bench.

“I don’t know how you walked out of there in one piece, Greg,” Sebastian had said, “but you may want to play the lottery and see if that lucky streak holds.” And then he’d had the bag pulled off his head and been transferred to a taxi. Sometime after that, he’d been let out on the right tube line with enough fare money to get to Baker Street and… here he was.

_He’d just… rest… for…_

“Gregory?”

Greg looked up woozily and saw Mycroft Holmes with an uncharacteristically concerned look on his face.

“Mycroft? Oh… I… passed out?”

“Apparently. What happened?”

“Tried to find some drug dealers and they found me instead–got beat up, shot up, and dumped.” He laughed, “And supposedly patched up, but just taking the tube and walking to here left me completely shagged out.”

Mycroft looked very alarmed– for Mycroft. “Get in the car, Gregory–we’ll go right to the hospital.”

“Was in the hospital–if an old contact hadn’t rescued me I’d be dead… Uh… wait…” he fished in his pocket, “here…” He handed Mycroft the paper that Sebastian had given him to hand to medical.

Mycroft glanced at it and his face went cool and professional; the next thing Greg knew he was in the back of Mycroft’s car and they were moving very fast.

“What did it say?” Greg asked curiously.

“Your old contact believes you were given a derivative of a military drug that was shelved for various problems–you were given a countering agent. I find myself intensely curious about your old contact.”

“So am I… oddly enough,” agreed Greg. “Hadn’t seen them in… uh… well, way too long. I figured they were dead.”

“Military?”

“Petty criminal.” Greg sighed, “Like one of… Anyway, I helped them out when I was undercover and never saw them again. I always hoped they made it, but…”

“That would have been some time ago indeed,” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t worked undercover in–”

“Don’t remind me,” Greg groaned. “I found out just how badly out of practice I was when they caught me. Apparently I can’t pass for ‘not a cop’ anymore.”

“No, you are far too respectable.” Mycroft smiled then, an actual, honest-to-god mischievous smile, “I admit however, that when I ran your background checks I found you to be quite a good-looking hoodlum.”

Greg grinned at him, “I still own a motorcycle if you ever feel like living dangerously… just… not until I get my balance back.”

The cool mask slipped back over Mycroft’s face and he was wondering why but then everything moved very, very fast. Stretchers, gurneys, lights and he was in a medical room with far too much equipment and too many doctors–one in military gear.

“Uhh… Hi?”

“I need to know how he was treated, Sir,” the military doctor was asking Mycroft.

“I have this; otherwise, you will have to ask Gregory.”

The doctor frowned at the paper and then looked dubiously at Greg. “What can you tell us?”

“I was tracking a drug lead–there had been a bunch of dead junkies and kids and I was told to leave it, so I took personal time and went to investigate.”

“That was very foolish,” Mycroft scolded him as they were hooking him up to more IVs…

“Watch the bandage there, I already ripped out an IV once,” Greg sighed. The bastards put the lines in some other places. Greg tried to ignore them.

“Yeah. Anyway, they found me. I got beaten a bit and then they shot me up–they said it was the same stuff they’d been ‘testing’ on the junkies–and I got dumped in an alley.”

Mycroft asked for names of the prior victims. Greg told him and the case files he could remember.

“Go on, please.”

“I got found and taken to a hospital. I woke up there with amnesia–I didn’t know my own name–and treated like shit, except someone visiting one of the wards saw me and thought I looked familiar. They passed word on to someone I knew from back in my undercover days… and apparently they got me out of the hospital and took me somewhere else.”

“Why?”

“Because they were going to put me in jail until they figured out who I was,” Greg sighed. “I wouldn’t have made it–probably been knifed when someone did recognize me.”

“If this paper is accurate, Detective, you would have been dead anyway,” the military doctor said calmly. “In fact, I’m surprised you are alive.”

“They had a friend who was… some kind of medic? Anyway, I got pumped full of fluids, and then, after I was there for a while, they put something in my IV they said would help… Oh, and somewhere in there I either had a flailing nightmare or a seizure, which is when I ripped out the IV and they switched arms.”

“I would very much like to meet them.”

“Good bloody luck. No idea where I was.”

“How did you get out?”

“It’s a bit fuzzy: I remember being blindfolded or having a bag over my head…” Greg shrugged.

Mycroft nodded slowly. “I will get samples from the cases you were investigating: we may be able to find out more of what you were given from that.”

And with that, Greg was left alone–alone in the sense that the medical people mostly seemed to talk over him or to the equipment.

Greg missed Sebastian as a nurse–he, at least, was good company. _I wonder who he was? Military, that’s for sure_. He’d been given a few ways of getting a message to Jim, in an emergency, with the warning that it could take a while for Jim to get it… and Sebastian had quietly whispered a contact method into his ear as he adjusted the hood–so probably keeping that from Jim.

 _Was this drug really military in origin?_ _What the hell have I gotten into?_ Greg dozed and woke and dozed again. The next time he woke up it was to the smell of food… and Mycroft was sitting there in a different suit.

“Morning?” Greg said hesitantly.

“Good afternoon, Gregory.” Mycroft was looking at him with a curious expression. “I’m afraid your old contact may have more to do with these drug dealers than you will be happy with.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me,” Greg nodded; he had thought it unlikely he’d been found by chance. “A lot of people are okay with hurting people until it’s someone they know… Maybe he just got cold feet because of me. Why do you think so?”

Mycroft pushed the table over the bed and uncovered a meal that did NOT come out of a hospital kitchen. “The drug is, in fact, out of your system. We did get samples from your cases, however, and it does appear to be a badly derived version of a drug that was developed for the military–and top secret. Either your contact chanced over a treatment that kept you alive, you happen to have an inherent resistance–and we are testing for that–or they were involved with the drug manufacture.”

“I hope they weren’t,” Greg said very honestly. “I told them I wouldn’t say anything about who helped me, but I also did warn them that if I caught them at anything I wouldn’t cover it up.” At a nod of permission from Mycroft Greg set into the best dinner he’d had since… Mycroft took him to his club.

“That explains your reticence to give any names.”

Greg shrugged. “I don’t know their real name anyway. This is fantastic, by the way.”

“I saw what they were going to feed you.” Mycroft gave a faint shiver of disgust. “I couldn’t permit it.”

Greg laughed, “Do you know, when my memory started coming back one of the things that did it was a meal bar?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I was eating a meal bar… and I suddenly remembered a lot of the other times I’d been having a meal bar, including the time you threw it out and took me to your club. That was when I remembered who I was and they… said I could go home and get help–now that I remembered my own name.” Greg lost the smile and continued, “Once they pointed out the problem, I saw it: I wouldn’t have lasted long in prison, or on my own with a memory shot full of holes–not with my own enemies and Sherlock’s…”

Mycroft sighed, “I owe them a great deal for taking care of you, then, because they were quite right.”

“You mean I owe them.”

“While I don’t doubt that you do, I would be… unhappy… if I were to lose someone else.”

Greg had no idea what to say about that. He finished his meal and then finally asked, a bit hesitantly, “So… maybe we could sit down over a meal sometime without there being drug overdoses, shootings, or what not involved?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him and gave him the very faintest smirk. “And when would that be?”

“Point… Okay, not directly and proximately involved, as in: when I don’t have IVs in my arms and worse places?”

“Agreed,” Mycroft nodded slowly.

“Especially since, even if I can get my job back, I think I’m off duty for a bit.”

“I wouldn’t dream of robbing you of this case, Gregory. You will be speaking shortly with an MI5 agent who is looking into it.” Mycroft shrugged very slightly and held a hand out in an apologetic fashion, “The military connection and level of secrecy takes the case away from the MET. You will be the police liaison in the case–especially any details about the people who assaulted you.”

“One of the things… I’m not sure if it’s reliable because of my memory, but I do have an address I heard…” It was an address Jim gave him, but he figured if he didn’t actually lie… “in addition to the place I was attacked–I expect they cleared out of there.”

“Do tell them,” Mycroft nodded. “Sadly, I must get back to my own work.”

“I appreciate you taking the time…”

Mycroft nodded politely and left. It wasn’t long after that that someone came in from MI5 and went through the details with him. They seemed very concerned about it all, and while the fellow talking to him seemed alright, the fellow hanging back by the door looked like he would be just as happy to shoot Greg for knowing too much.

When the military doctor came back in, Greg asked if he really needed the IVs anymore and was told–with some reluctance–“No, but you should keep the main IV in for another day in case.”

Greg sighed, “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

When the Guyanese assistant nurse, or technician, or junior whoever came in, he took his chance. “{Miss? Could you take a message down to Molly Hooper in the morgue? She’s a friend…}”

“{You speak French?}”

“{Well enough, I have family…}” Greg gave the woman his best smile and handed her the note.

“{No one else is supposed to come in…}”

“{Tell her that, then; it will be her decision.}”

She went away and Greg hoped what he was doing was unnecessary. After only a few minutes– or aybe he’d dozed off again– Molly slipped in the door. _Either security really sucked or Molly’s innocent face was a good key._

“Greg? YOU’RE the high-security mystery patient?”

“Yeah, and I need your help… I hope I’m wrong but… Can you pull my IV–the doctor said I don’t really need it–but leave it looking set up?”

Molly asked “Why?” even as she was taking it out. _Bless her._

“After everything… I learned to trust my gut for danger and I get the feeling I’ve stepped into something way bigger and worse than just drugs.”

Molly looked worried but she didn’t panic or start babbling–Greg realized he had underestimated her. “So what are you doing? Do you need me to stay?” She glanced at the door.

“No, they need to not know you were here. As to what I’m doing? Just an old trick from my undercover days, okay?” Greg said cadging one of the empty bags.

“Alright…” She looked thoughtful, “Anything you can tell me?”

“Yeah. If anything happens to me, go straight to Mycroft because trust me: it was murder.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft, Moles, and MI5

Greg dozed and tried to keep track of who came in and what they did–which was harder than it seemed when you were feigning unconsciousness. Shortly after the sun started filtering through the blinds, the sound of an umbrella tap along with the footsteps woke him up feeling safe enough to open his eyes.

The military doctor gasped, and Mycroft frowned as he turned toward the man.

“I expect he figured I’d be dead,” Greg said calmly. “Someone poisoned my IV overnight.”

“What? Please explain.” Mycroft’s voice was level and calm, but Greg was beginning to get the idea that that was the worst thing you could hear from him.

“Two people came in, at least, overnight and messed with my IV. Given his shock that I opened my eyes, at least one of them poisoned me and he expected you to find me dead.”

Mycroft simply said “Arrest him” and some suited men who might as well have had ‘The Secret Service’ written on them apparently appeared out of nowhere and restrained the military doctor.

“He isn’t cleared–loose ends need to be removed!” hissed the military doctor at Mycroft. “You know that!”

“Thank you for your confession,” Mycroft said drily, and then continued, “If anyone needs to be removed, it is my call, not yours, especially when the patient is assisting in an investigation of the actual loose ends. I begin to suspect where the leak of the drug came from.” Mycroft nodded at the men, “Make certain he is detained properly.”

 _Oh Holy shit… Jim was right…_ Greg forced himself to stay calm and get information. “You think he leaked the military drug?”

“I do not see why he would have tried to remove you before we could find the culprits otherwise…” For a moment Mycroft looked tired and then it passed. “You are obviously not poisoned.”

“Old trick from undercover days,” Greg shrugged. He pulled the blanket back and took the tape off that kept the IV apparently in his arm. In actual fact it just taped the tubing against his arm, and the needle was connected into the previously empty saline bag lying by his side. “You should be able to test the contents of the bag for whatever they gave me–it might be untraceable in the body but I bet it doesn’t break down in saline. Of course, if BOTH people who mucked with my line tried something it might be more complex.”

Mycroft was simply staring at the bag and then tracing the line back with his eyes… watching the IV liquid drip slowly into the tube that should be going into Gregory’s vein… and filling the bag instead.

“I apologize for underestimating you Gregory: that’s brilliant.”

Greg quirked a smile. “I may not be a Holmes, but I’m not a complete waste of brains. Thank Molly for helping me get the IV pulled without messing me up and getting me the bandaging, though. I underestimated her: she just did what I asked and didn’t ask why.” He sighed, “I told her if anything happened to go straight to you.”

“Miss Hooper is an often overlooked individual. I shall see that she is rewarded quietly…” Mycroft frowned, “In the meantime, that needs to be analyzed and we need to find out who was in your room.”

“All due respect, Mycroft, but… I don’t feel safe at all here, especially with people trying to hush up military involvement? I think I’d rather recuperate at home–with a gun and a sofa in front of the door.”

Mycroft stood there for several seconds tapping fingers on his umbrella. “First we will review the recordings of your room, then–”

“Recordings of my… You bugged the room?”

“Habit.”

“But you didn’t expect a problem, so it wasn’t being watched… or… oh, right. The usual problem: it looks normal for someone to inject an IV line.”

“It was not being watched continuously, but likely anything that was seen was not noticed.” Mycroft nodded.

“Right… Can I get out of here?”

“I… do not think it wise that you go home just yet, but I must agree that the hospital is not at all secure.” Mycroft actually looked a bit hesitant. “Would you be comfortable staying in my home? In addition to being secure, I have rather complete medical available: my work necessitates it.”

Greg looked thoughtfully at the door the military doctor was just dragged out of. “Okay, but… we REALLY need to talk about this.”

Mycroft nodded his head and began giving orders. Greg found himself back in a dark sedan–this time with the woman who was always texting.

“Hi?” Greg asked hesitantly.

She looked at him with an expression that was rather quelling…

“OH! You must be ‘uh-Anthea’; that figures.” Greg nodded at her and lay back and closed his eyes. He’d never gotten a name from her before–figures John would. She was the good looking woman in the car that he’d remembered before; Mycroft was the man… Odd that he’d thought Mycroft was a cologne…

“…what?”

“John said Mycroft had a PA whose name was ‘uh-Anthea’ or more properly ‘not Anthea but she wouldn’t tell me anything else–nice looking though’ and he said she spent the whole ride playing angry birds or something… I hadn’t put that together with the lady in Mycroft’s car when we were dealing with Sherlock…”

Not-Anthea snickered very faintly, “Anthea will do, Mister Lestrade; you can skip the formality of ‘uh’ and ‘not’.”

“It’s Greg, please, and if you are going to call me Lestrade it’s DI, Detective, or ‘Oi! Lestrade!’ according to my coworkers…” Greg flashed her a grin.

She glanced up from her typing–it was a Blackberry, or looked like one–“Not making a pass at me, then?”

“Got warned off by the report from the front line medic,” Greg smirked back. “Although he might try it again: he has the danger fetish, not me.”

“Am I that dangerous?”

“Gun in a thigh holster, knife under the jacket which means you are more used to and comfortable with close in knife work? Hell yeah, you’re dangerous: John probably thought it was sexy.”

She stared at him for a moment. “I don’t think Captain Watson noticed.”

“I don’t think he CARED,” Greg laughed. “But then Sherlock got his–” Greg sighed. “Then Sherlock got his attention and I think that fulfilled his adrenaline needs… Sorry, it’s… still hard to believe it all some days.”

She nodded at him but was looking at him with a lot more respect–then her phone buzzed and she said “Excuse me” and went back to typing.

Greg woke up as they pulled up to a house in a neighborhood was intimidating just driving through, and he was hustled inside quickly.

_Before the neighbors see someone from my income bracket that isn’t a gardener…_

A butler–who had a sidearm and a way of walking that said military–escorted him to a guest room and suggested a nap. “Mister Holmes will be home late, unless I miss my guess. I was told to ensure you got dinner.”

“Uh, thank you… A nap sounds lovely.”

Greg didn’t intend to sleep, really, just lie down for a few–

“Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice pulled him out of a vague dream about motorcycles.

“Hmmm?” Greg blinked and Mycroft Holmes was standing next to his bed in a sort of casual robe over his shirt and trousers… and there was a tray of food.

“You really should have eaten already, but Morris was hesitant to wake you.”

Greg struggled to sit up. “Oh boy… Just lay down for a minute…” Mycroft helped him to sit up and pulled up a chair.

“I expect it will be a while before you are back to usual, and I was told you should rest; however, I think food is called for,” Mycroft flashed one of those rare smiles, “and not a meal bar.”

“I cannot picture you eating a meal bar, Mycroft… Oh… Oh! I’m sorry, I… Is it alright to call you Mycroft?” Greg blinked, trying to figure out why he’d slipped into such an easy informality.

Mycroft nodded regally, but his eyes were twinkling a bit, “Certainly, as a guest in my home, I think you could be permitted to call me Mycroft.”

Greg smiled, “Do you know… I remembered your name before I remembered you?”

Mycroft tilted his head curiously. “Oh?

Greg started eating and got a bit distracted by the food, but eventually recovered enough to continue: “I was trying to remember… and I remembered the word ‘Mycroft’, but it was…” Greg looked apologetic at him. “I thought for some reason it was a cologne.”

Greg was concerned Mycroft would be offended, instead he chuckled, “A cologne? What does ‘Mycroft’ smell like then?”

Greg smiled, “Like your cologne: subtle, and rich with a fresh sort of smell, and it has that warm, not-quite-cinnamon undertone to it. I…” Greg stopped and memories filtered back slowly. “I thought… when they dragged me out to the alleyway to die… the last thing I remembered before… I remembered thinking I smelled your cologne…” Greg looked up in confusion.

“The cologne I wear is expensive,” Mycroft said slowly, “and not terribly popular… but it’s not unique to myself. Do you think you actually smelled it? Or were you imagining it?”

“Don’t know.” Greg sighed and then blinked at the empty plates. “Wow, I don’t even remember finishing it.”

“I’m simply glad you are doing as well as you are,” Mycroft admitted. “The drug–the original drug–was meant to make people suggestable, and… well, without going into details, suffice it to say that it was a rather spectacular failure. The derivative you were given also seems to be a failure–since it is killing people–but you might have been… suggestable.” Mycroft looked uncomfortable. “Perhaps still may be.”

“Ti… The nurse who took care of me… or the person who did… when I was…”

“When your friend had you.” Mycroft nodded. “Believe it or not, Greg, I do understand the quandaries of competing demands on your loyalty.”

Greg sat back against the pillows. “I won’t help anyone hurt people… but… I won’t turn them in for helping me out.” He sighed, “I… I don’t know everything they’ve been involved in since my undercover days, but… they had it rough then.”

Mycroft nodded, “Out of consideration for their saving your life, I am inclined to look the other way… for the moment.”

“I told them if I caught them doing anything I would run them in.” Greg looked solemnly at Mycroft, “I meant it… but… I overlooked…. I overlooked a lot out of Sherlock…”

Mycroft smiled sadly, “Yes, yes you did… and overlooked quite a bit of my behavior as well.” He sat up straighter. “I will not…” He took a deep breath, “Greg, I will TRY not to use any information you give me to find your friend, or to cause him harm, but… the more I know about what happened, the better the odds of finding the problem.”

“Did you look into those addresses?”

“Yes. One was in fact abandoned: the one you had found; the other seems to be still in use and MI5 is surveilling it.”

“Good,” Greg nodded and then tried to put his recollections together.

“So I already told you about trying to find the drug dealers, right?” Mycroft nodded. “Alright, the cologne part… As I was passing out after they shot me up–couldn’t open my eyes–the garbage smell of the dumpster and the alley… well, I suddenly smelled your cologne. I have no idea if it was a delusion or real.

“Later, when… when they got me out of the hospital, and after I’d had–after I was a little better–I was talking to…” Greg paused. _I can’t keep saying ‘this guy’ but I don’t want to give away anything._ “Let’s call him ‘T’: some guy I didn’t know before, but he works for my old contact…” Greg waited for Mycroft to nod before continuing. “Anyway, I mentioned that I had bits of recollection… and that cars with dark windows, and stuff like that was… associated with this word: ‘Mycroft’ and I thought it was a cologne.”

Mycroft looked like he was struggling to keep a straight face: the corner of his mouth kept twitching up.

Greg laughed, “Yeah, it’s funny now.”

“What did they say?”

“That he thought it was a name, and… well, frankly I don’t think he wanted to know any details. I kind of had the impression T didn’t want to know too much about me, and I know he didn’t want me to know too much about him or anything.”

Greg could almost see Mycroft putting Tiger into a box marked “Goon”.

“They let you go when you remembered?”

“I think it was more like ‘when I had a chance in hell of defending myself’.” Greg put his head back on the pillow. “He hadn’t thought I would survive in jail–if anyone recognized me–or being turned back to…” Greg shut his eyes against the light. “…my unit. Too many… dirty cops…”

Mycroft waited until he was certain Greg was asleep again and called in the staff to get him changed into pajamas. As tempting as it was to stay, it would be rude. Mycroft went to his study.

Mycroft looked idly at the file on Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. He’d originally merely thought him useful in keeping Sherlock in line and busy, but the man was a passionately honest policeman who nonetheless appreciated Sherlock’s brilliance and was willing to… overlook a few things.

Gregory had simply been trying to investigate the deaths of junkies–there was quite the paper trail of him annoying his superiors about it–so he’d identified the pattern of deaths as suspicious, gone, been captured, been beaten, and been drugged with…

…what turned out to be a derivative of a failed drug from a highly classified drug research program–the same program that had created the Baskerville hallucinogen.

Mycroft frowned and rearranged his desk as he thought.

Somehow a ‘contact’ from Gregory’s undercover days had been involved in this. He’d identified Gregory, and had strong enough feelings about the man to… not leave him to die. Unlikely that they were ethically opposed to killing people, if they were involved in the drug testing, so it must have been personal: Gregory wasn’t an unknown junkie. They’d ‘had it rough’ back when Gregory had been undercover–like many in the criminal class. Mycroft sighed. _Born in poverty, raised in violence, taking the only way they saw: the jails and morgues were full of them. They don’t usually get crossed into anything this hot, though._

Gregory’s contact had someone working for him that was medically trained, whose name started with a ‘Tie’ sound–Tyrone? Tiberius?–and it was evident that Gregory liked him…

Mycroft finished rearranging his desk and started tapping his pens one at a time. Gregory liking ‘T’ meant very little other than that they were pleasant to him while he was very suggestible. His reluctance to share information about his contact could be genuine, or the result of the same suggestibility, or both.

There were agents inside the military who were selling things of this level of classification. Mycroft closed his eyes and once again wished his brother was finished with his mission: Sherlock could be counted on to root out moles and informants by the sheer power of annoyance.

_Well, MI5 was going to raid the location in the early morning. We’ll just have to see what they find._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregory, Mycroft, and the raid on the laboratory.  
> (note: greg is not EXACTLY a reliable narrator here.)

Mycroft’s people raided the facility in the pre-dawn hours. They found part of the laboratory, some computers, a dying junkie, and several men.

Mycroft’s people–and MI6, because he didn’t trust MI5 with this anymore, not after Greg–immediately began going through the computers to find out how to counter the drug…

…and found that if the countering agents were ever known, they weren’t on these computers.

Interrogation found that two of the senior chemists had mysteriously died–when their bodies were eventually retrieved, they had traces of the drug in their systems–and several more associates had simply vanished.

But the men who had taken Gregory were found.

Mycroft had them thrown to his best interrogators. It might take some time, but he would find out everything they knew–based on his observations? Not much.

Gregory was recovering quickly, but he slept a great deal: Mycroft’s doctors informed him that it was likely a reaction to finally being safe enough to do so; the military doctors were concerned it was a long term drug effect.

When Gregory was awake, and Mycroft was awake and at home–the two did not always line up–Gregory tried to talk to him. It was… pleasant, if not particularly challenging. Usually having anyone in his house, much less talking to him over a meal, was an irritation, but Gregory was unusually soothing.

“So was the military fellow the leak?” Gregory asked over dinner. He’d been awake for longer stretches of time today.

“One, I am afraid, of several.” Mycroft admitted. “it was not a program I oversaw, you understand–having been shelved some time ago as a failure–but the security breach falls into my purview, and it… it was very bad that it happened at all, and would have been far worse if it had gotten any further. I am afraid I owe you a great debt.”

“You would have been owing my corpse a great debt,” Gregory said solemnly. “The more I’ve understood about this, the more… the more I understand how much I owe… I owe them.” He looked down at his plate. “But I’m terrified of how involved they were with this… I just don’t know what to do.”

“You could tell me about them? I would try to... I could arrange a pardon, I am certain...”

“I promised not to talk about them Mycroft.” Gregory smiled sadly, “And… honestly? I believe you mean that, but I don’t believe you could DO that.”

“I assure you, I could arrange a pardon under most–”

Gregory shook his head, “It’s not that I don’t think you could, it’s that I think when you had the problem right in front of you–the people right in front of you–you wouldn’t.” He looked up solemnly at Mycroft, “Someone I knew as a contact from undercover days… they were… they were some kind of criminal then, and while I hadn’t seen them again until this? I don’t for one moment think they went straight–I don’t think, honestly, that they ever had the option.” He smiled sadly, “But… I know they ran into a lot of cops like the one in the hospital and–”

“What policeman in the hospital?” Mycroft asked. He heard the disgust and anger in Gregory’s voice.

“I was in the hospital, and… well, dying I guess… with amnesia… and this cop came to take my statement and he clearly hated me–thought I was a junkie–refused to look into anything, or try to help, and spat in my coffee before he left.” Greg’s voice had gotten steely. “The kind of petty abuse that keeps people from coming to us for help, and from telling us about problems: if that’s what you get? Why would you?”

“Why, indeed…” Mycroft kept his face impassive and resolved to do something about this.

“When he met me… back when I was undercover…” Gregory clearly wanted someone to talk to, and was struggling not to betray any confidences, “he… he was amazed that I was a cop, but I was willing to help him… cops were the enemy, corrupt, and hateful…” Gregory shook his head, “If that’s what he thought of the police? That I was… I was a miracle? Unheard of? He said ‘an honest cop’ the way someone else might say ‘a unicorn’.”

“I have, in fact, had a few of the survivors of that life end up in front of me–usually as a career criminal.” Mycroft admitted, “Most… don’t survive that long.”

“I think it’s why I was so shocked when I recognized him.” Gregory nodded. “I… I had flashing images of Sherlock when I was recovering, you know.”

Mycroft tilted his head. _Yes, young, drug addicted, apparently without a home… there would be a resemblance and thus a memory trigger._ “No, I didn’t.”

“I remember the first time I saw him, high as a kite and he looked horrible, and yet… he was right.”

“And most of the other police wouldn’t listen,” Mycroft nodded, “and that was the same with this fellow?”

“I don’t think anyone ever… gave him a chance.” Gregory shrugged. “Sherlock had you…”

“And you.”

“And me,” Gregory agreed. “And a family, and eventually other people… and we’re all, more or less, on the up and up: we made it easier for him. I don’t think he ever had anyone on the up and up except that one brief time we dealt with each other, and then I never saw him again… and… I’m pretty sure that’s why he saved my life.”

Mycroft nodded slowly, “And I hate to say it, but you are probably correct: if I were to come across him, right now, I would want to know about his involvement… and…”

“I think I can say with certainty that he wouldn’t want to cooperate with you.”

Mycroft could tell there was more. Gregory wasn’t lying, he hadn’t lied once, but he was trying so hard to conceal things that might lead Mycroft to him.

“You know how to get in touch with him now, don’t you?” Mycroft asked gently.

“That obvious?”

“Yes, to me.”

“I can contact him… or maybe T.”

“When you are well enough to do that, I will give you a list of things we need to know… and… you can ask if he knows the answers.” Mycroft bit his lip briefly, “I will… I will do my best not to interfere.”

“Mycroft… I know how this works, really I do. I want your sworn word: no trackers, no tracers, no taps… NOTHING.”

Mycroft winced, because of course he had been planning to do that.

“Nothing, Mycroft.”

“Do you think I would be able to forgive myself if anything happened to you?”

“I will leave a sealed envelope, and I want it to STAY sealed. And no… whatever spy craft peeking you can do.” Gregory nodded firmly, “I’ll put the information in that, but… I’m very serious, Mycroft: I want your word.”

“I find it touching that you take my word so seriously.”

“I know you’re capable of lying, but…”

“You have my word, Gregory.” Mycroft met his eyes and said it very solemnly, “When you are well enough to go I will remove the tracers–”

“Remove?!”

“Remove the tracers,” Mycroft continued, “and permit you to go unobserved. Of course you have tracers on you right now, after what happened in the hospital?”

“Oh… well… yeah.” Gregory rubbed the back of his neck, “I suppose… I’m sorry, I’m… not used to it.”

“I would, of course, PREFER that you permit my people to track you. Your friend and his… ah… assistant… did save your life, and as I said I feel some debt there as well, but…” Mycroft sighed, “You have far too much experience to believe it is safe, Gregory.”

Gregory just smiled, “Honestly? I wouldn’t be surprised if my contact information is a dead end by now… but just in case it isn’t? You want information, and so do I.”

Mycroft just nodded.

“So any progress on the case itself?”

“Yes, but… if you are in fact determined to go try to speak to your contact… I would prefer not to give you that information, yet.”

“Ah, right. That makes sense.” Gregory laughed suddenly, “God… you…” Then he stopped smiling. “Sorry… I was thinking about Sherlock.”

“Please… don’t cease mentioning him.” Mycroft nodded, “I would prefer… not to have him forgotten.”

“I was just saying that you two are so much alike sometimes it’s scary, but you’re so different other times… I just was struck by it.”

Mycroft couldn’t help but smile faintly, “Few people see the resemblance.”

“Oh… well… the big obvious stuff is so different I guess people don’t see it, but you’re both scary smart, and… I can almost hear you figuring out how to say it so I’ll follow it–Sherlock never bothered, it was just ‘for heavens’ sake, Gary, it’s obvious!’ and stuff.” Gregory smiled a bit wistfully.

“I… know my brother wasn’t the easiest to get along with, and once again I want to thank you for letting him… keep himself occupied.”

“I know you greased the way, and believe me I appreciate it, but… honestly? For all the trouble he was sometimes, he was right most of the time.” Gregory sighed and raised the nearly empty wine glass–Mycroft was not such a barbarian as to make him go without, he merely got a very limited pour–“Donc, aux amis absents,” he said quietly and finished his wine.

Mycroft blinked, “I knew you had French relations, I had no idea you spoke French…” It was… it was a shock and a fascination to find out he’d MISSED that.

“Maybe I just know a few phrases,” Gregory laughed.

“No, you speak it.” Mycroft switched to French, “{My own French is rather rusty, and I am accustomed to embassy discussions only, but I would be delighted to have someone else to converse with.}”

Gregory looked startled and then smiled, “{I had no idea YOU spoke French, Mycroft, and you don’t sound rusty at all–I hope you can forgive my peasant accent.}”

The rest of the evening was delightfully spent discussing French cuisine, books, and a promise to attend a French language movie together at some point–Mycroft resolving to arrange it for his home…

_Movie theaters… shudder._

~

Interrogation of the men who had given Gregory not merely “a” dose, but several doses of the drug raised considerably more questions than answers.

He was deliberately overdosed, such that he was incoherent and unable to fight back even as they dragged him to a known spot for drug use and abandoned him. They had no reason to believe that there was any way to save his life, and they knew that in the limited time he had to live he wouldn’t be able to tell anyone anything. They knew of no one–no one at all–who could reverse the lethal side effects, since their own people had been working in it with no success as yet.

Their “successes”, thus far, made this a mildly useful interrogation drug–in that the victim would obligingly babble and was highly suggestible–but started an inevitable countdown to partial or complete amnesia, followed by death.

In other words, precisely the problems for which it was shelved.

And somehow… Gregory had been rescued and had survived the initial overdose to wake up in a hospital… with amnesia. By every understanding Mycroft had of this drug, and all of its predecessors, Gregory should have proceeded in an uninterruptable spiral down to death…

With no way to stop it.

Except somehow, some criminal he’d impressed as an honest cop had managed the impossible, and saved his life. Aside from his lamentable tendency to sleep a great deal, he was fully recovered: his memory and wits intact.

Which the military labs had been unable to accomplish.

Which these people had been unable to accomplish.

Someone had managed to keep him alive long enough to get to the hospital, and then to arrange his retrieval from the hospital–probably when they realized that he had been dosed with that drug–by a fraudulent brother…

And it was greatly disturbing that all the records of who had been his brother, and Gregory leaving the facility were missing–and the cameras appeared to have all missed him as well….

And then this contact from Gregory’s undercover days, and his assistant–who had enough medical knowledge to rather expertly run IV lines and handle Gregory’s nursing care–somehow–SOMEHOW–managed what teams of scientists hadn’t managed.

Unless he had his own team that had been working quietly in parallel? Yes, probably… which would explain how the two senior chemists had been dosed with their own drug, and died….

Which meant Gregory’s friend had risked a frighteningly valuable project–making the drug usable–to save his life, and then release him–release him with a note explaining what he’d been exposed to.

It made no sense.

Moriarty was the only one who could have run all of this right under my nose… but with him dead, would his projects have fallen apart? Or been picked up by someone else?

And was Gregory’s friend high enough up to get away with this? Or had he signed his death warrant allowing Gregory to leave?

Mycroft sat staring at nothing as he tried to balance his conflicting obligations, again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> time passes, and taxi cab rides.

What felt like an eternity later Greg was finally cleared for “light duty” by the doctors, and had stopped sleeping through most of the day.

“Myc…” Gregory said quietly over dinner.

“Yes, I suppose you are well enough to contact them–even if I wish you would not.” _Or better yet, let me contact them._

Greg grinned, “Kind of goes without saying.  So I need to be able to go out without any kind of surveillance or tracker.”

Mycroft frowned and stared down into his plate, “I have a counter proposal.”

“if it involves tying me to a fishing line…” Greg smirked.

Mycroft laughed, and wasn’t it a marvel that Greg could always make him laugh, “Not exactly. I want to give you a panic button–something inert until you trigger it.”

Greg considered that, “You would be able to track it… wouldn’t you? Even if I didn’t trigger it.”

“Yes.” Mycroft held up a hand, “But I would–do– give you my word that I would not use it unless you were out of touch for a period of time we agree on.”  He looked calmly into Greg’s eyes, “in case they can prevent you from triggering it, or… you die.”

Most people wouldn’t have even noticed the hesitation, but Greg did.  He patted Mycroft on the hand, “As long as they don’t feel cornered or threatened? I’m safe–assuming I can even get in touch with them at all.”

~

Sebastian reported dutifully on Greg’s transfer from the hospital to Mycroft’s personal care–As usual, Boss seemed to find his abilities to flirt information out of the nurses and staff useful, but it also made him cranky.

If he didn’t know better…

…but the boss wasn’t interested in ANYONE that way, as far as he could tell, except as cover.

But then he’d been far too busy arranging the recovery or kidnapping of some of the drug developers, and injecting a few of the bastards with their own drug.  It was terrifying watching what happened to them without the antidote.

Boss seemed to be testing the antidote on a few of them…

_Fuck it, as long as it wasn’t me._

He was in Germany, running a ‘minor errand’ for the Boss–well a minor errand for him, but anyone else would have fucked it up and the Boss knew it– when he got a message alert on an email he used very rarely…

“This is a burner phone number: XXXXXXXXXX .   Call me? Greg.”

Sebastian considered, took care of immediate business, found a burner phone of his own and called.

“Hello? T?”

“Yeah, hi Greg… I thought everything was good?  I mean…”

“I’m doing better, actually.  I was sleeping, I mean a LOT, but I’m finally at the point where I can function most of the day.”

“Glad to hear it,” Sebastian relaxed a bit, but… “So…what’s the problem?”

“I need to talk to him.  Now Mycroft swore that I wasn’t bugged, but… I’m currently in a back room of a pub with a burner phone, and yes, he knows I’m trying to contact you two. I haven’t mentioned any names–and I won’t– or given away anything as far as I know…”

“I… you want me to ask him to meet or call you or something? You do… maybe you don’t… look, he’s REALLY temperamental…”

“He was when I first met him too…” Greg sighed. “How long until you could ask him?”

“Things are busy right now.  How about if I, or he, or someone, calls you back in… three days?”

“Alright. I’ll probably be in Mycroft’s house, though.”

“In his… you’re staying in his house?!”

“Security concerns, a few people tried to kill me in St. Barts…”

“They did?” Sebastian considered, “Boss may know about it–he doesn’t tell me much some days–but I didn’t know.”

“Yeah.  I didn’t feel safe at my place, and… honestly I slept most of the time at first.  Do you know if that’s… normal?”

“…I … can’t talk about it right now, but… maybe? Three days.  I’ll call and at least set up a time to call or a place or… something.”

He hung up and went back to work.  When he finished up he called Moriarty and reported, and then… “I… was contacted by Greg…”

A very long suffering sigh came down the line. “And?”

“He wants to talk to you…” Sebastian relayed what Greg had said, including rather hesitantly about his staying in Mycroft’s house.

“…huh… the Iceman… doesn’t usually let people get that close, for any reason.”  Jim was speaking slowly and thinking “it’s odd that he would come out and say that, if it was a trap…”

“I could meet him?”

“Finish business. Come back. Call him when agreed on. I’ll work out where to meet him and you’ll see if he can be picked up and brought to me.  I admit I’m interested in finding out how well he’s recovered, as well…”

Jim hung up  and  stared at nothing much for a while… remembering  hard lessons about  trust, and considering how little Greg had changed… and how odd it was–or was it?– that he’d ended up involved with both of them…

“He’s me.” Jim sighed, “In another life, in other circumstances… we’ve always been tied together–figures we’d both end up dealing with the same cop.”

~…~

Three days later, Greg’s phone rang. He was eating lunch and Mycroft was home for a change–although he had some business to deal with later– and they’d been talking about the news…

It took Greg a moment to fumble the phone out of his pocket. “This is Greg…”

“Hey,” Tiger’s voice came down the line and Greg nodded slowly at Mycroft. “My boss is a bit…well to put it bluntly he doesn’t trust Mycroft not to follow you, whether you think he is or not.”

“I… can understand that.” Greg allowed, “But he did give his word… so how can we manage?”

“You go to a location, I pick you up. I check you for tracers and then I take you to someplace else.”

“That sounds very reasonable.” Greg nodded firmly.  Tiger gave him the where, and when and hung up.

Greg put the phone down. “T will meet me and we’ll go someplace from there.”

Mycroft nodded slowly, “If I do not hear from you in three hours–”

“Myc…I know how these things work,” Greg shook his head, “I don’t even know how long I’ll be driven around in circles, and then probably waiting someplace until they feel safe… if its ANYTHING like my old undercover days it will either be very fast, or way more than three hours.”

Mycroft sighed. “You are correct.  How long do you want?”

“Twenty four.”

“Too long.”

“It’s my… it’s my contact, Mycroft… let me play it my way.  They saved my life, I really think the only danger I’m in is if they think you–or some authority anyway– is too close.”

Mycroft bowed his head slightly, “Very well… but I… I worry about you.”

Greg smiled, “That’s downright sweet from you.”

“I will deny it if asked.” Mycroft had a faint smile playing over his lips.

Greg grinned, and they went to get him ready. Mycroft reluctantly extracted a truly impressive number of tracers from a set of his clothes.

“You look…” Mycroft couldn’t help but clear his throat at the image of Greg in jeans, and boots, a snug shirt and a casual jacket.

“Good? Bad?”

“Very good, actually.”

Greg looked back at the mirror and dragged a hand through his hair–more grey than brown these days–“I used to live in leathers…” he said quietly.

“As I said, you looked like a hoodlum, albeit an attractive one.” Mycroft looked him over, trying to keep his voice and gaze professional, “You don’t look like a hoodlum anymore, but… it is still an attractive look–on you: its far more casual than I like on most people–I should  introduce you to my tailor.”

“As if I could afford your tailor?” Greg chuckled and Mycroft called a taxi for him.

Greg looked Mycroft over before he went out the door, “Do you know when I was talking to T I said I remembered dark cars and an attractive woman texting…”

“Yes?”

“And sometimes an attractive man.” Greg nodded, “And I still owe you a motorcycle ride.” And he walked out and got into the taxi.

Mycroft stood just inside the door for a very long time: _he thought… I was an attractive man? When he didn’t remember_ … and then he slowly smiled, just a little. “Motorcycles…” he shook his head, “You had best get back safely and then we can talk about these old habits of yours… and your questionable dress sense.”

~

Greg gave the address to the taxi driver, but when they were several blocks away the driver said: “Just so you know, sir, I had orders to take you someplace else–didn’t want you to worry.”

Greg blinked, and then nodded, “That… makes sense.”

They drove past the arranged meeting place and paused, and then around London for a while, and the taxi driver stopped and got them both some food, and eventually they got to some kind of taxi depot.

“Your stop–and mine.”

“Nice to have met you, hope I get you as a driver again some time…” Greg meant it too–he’d been pleasant company.  He was taken into a dingy office where a tall shape was lounging against the wall… “Tiger?”

“Hey, Greg. Sorry for the diversion– oh, and I have to check you for bugs.”

Greg hesitated for no more than a moment before holding out his watch. “This is a traceable panic button–Mycroft swore he wouldn’t use it until I’d been out of touch for 24 hours, but…”

Tiger gave him an approving look. “We’ll put it in the lost and found–you left it in the cab, you know.”

“Clever way of taking me off grid…”

Tiger nodded, “it works.” He checked him for any further tracers and finally nodded, “Come on then…”

“Blindfold this time?”

“Boss didn’t say to…” Tiger shrugged, “would it make you feel better?”

“Not really, I still get kind of dizzy every now and then–can I know where we’re going?”

“Back where you were before.”

They got into a car with darkened windows, and Greg had the oddest sense of deja-vu as he smelled Mycroft’s cologne…

“Does… does your boss use this car a lot?”

“A lot? No, but… he uses it. Why?”

“I smelled this cologne, when… when I was in the alley–I thought it was Mycroft’s.”

Sebastian hesitated and then finally said, “I was there, you know, when we found you.  Boss was just going to walk around you when you suddenly said ‘Mycroft?’ and he looked at you–you looked like just another druggie in the alley to me…”

Greg nodded, finding himself desperate to know what had happened.

“And he said, ‘Greg…?’ in this kind of stunned voice, and… got right down in the crappy alley next to you–and he hates messing up his clothes usually, although sometimes he doesn’t care– and then I hauled you into our car and you got some narcan and… well delivered to the hospital.”

“…they wear the same cologne?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Sebastian shrugged and waved at the hamper in the back with them. “Anyway–it’s a longish ride back so help yourself to a sandwich and some coffee and get comfortable.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> discussions over dinner

Greg may have been staying awake for longer periods of time, but after driving around half the day in the taxi, and the transfer, the pleasant rumble of the darkened car put him sound asleep. Sebastian considered waking him, and then decided it was better security if he didn’t.

Greg woke up to Tiger helping him out of the car. “Hm? Oh… I’m sorry… that was rude–falling asleep… I do that I’m afraid…”

“I figured maybe it was better if I let you sleep.”

Greg looked around as he saw more of the house, or flat, or… well it was rich and he couldn’t picture anyone else living in the building even if it was divided into flats.  “Let me guess, the other flats are for show?”

“Not exactly.” Moriarty–Jim– walked out of another room and looked Greg over, “The other flats have people who live there for security… so… not just for show, but controlled.  You look a bit disheveled.”

“He slept most of the car ride from the taxi depot.” Sebastian had a hand on Greg’s elbow and he honestly wasn’t sure if it was guarding him or supporting him.

“hmm… probably should get a follow up blood test…” Jim shrugged. “I have dinner set up, assuming you want any?”

“That… would be great, thanks. The cabbie-nice guy by the way– stopped and got us a bite to eat but…”

He was steered into the other room and sat down to a meal that was… well not take out–catered maybe? Jim told Tiger to take a seat, which seemed to surprise him a bit.

“You can talk about any current events in front of Sebastian, Greg, just no details of past history.”

“Right…” Greg looked at Jim–rich clothes even casually, aggressive, confident–and couldn’t help but overlay the battered kid who had looked at him with sharp calculation.  “There’s… things I would like to discuss about that, but… later.”

“Eat something. Then talk.” Sebastian nodded.

“Tiger thinks I don’t eat enough,” Jim smiled faintly.  Greg considered that on anyone else it would have looked like a smirk, but…he seemed fond of the man, but probably leery of getting close, like most street kids.

“You probably don’t eat enough if you’re anything like Sherlock.” Greg dug into the meal.

Sebastian looked a bit alarmed at Greg’s comment, but Jim laughed and he relaxed just a hair. “I told him: he’s me–we have a lot in common.”

“Oddly I said that to Mycroft.” Greg hesitated, “at the risk of bringing up past history…”

Jim froze with the fork half way to his mouth and then slowly put it down, “you did?” he glanced at Sebastian and then leaned forward, “alright… this I have to hear: go on.”

“I was pointing out that my… contact from the old days, who helped me… well; I was reminded a bit of when Sherlock showed up at that first case.” Greg glanced at Sebastian and continued, “But that he had… he had a lot of people on the up and up looking out for him and trying to help him out, and I didn’t think you did, judging from the astonishment at meeting an honest cop.”

The questions slammed right back into the front of Sebastian’s mind: _When the fuck did these two meet? HOW did they meet?_ He tried to keep his face neutral but figured he wasn’t fooling anyone.

Jim hesitated and then continued eating, “Our backgrounds are a bit more different than JUST that, but…I don’t doubt that that factor made a big difference.”  He took a sip of the wine, “Sherlock never had to deal with many consequences–big brother usually bailed him out–and along the way he somehow acquired some ethics and morals, but I blame his live-in one for that.”

“John?” Greg hesitated, “I think he brought it to the surface, if you know what I mean.  Sherlock… had walled himself off a lot from people.”

“He honestly thinks Sherlock is dead, doesn’t he?” Jim shook his head.

“I only have you saying he isn’t.” Greg said quietly. “It… hurt a lot of people.”

“Mikey didn’t tell you? Even with you living there?”

“No… he just told me not to hesitate about talking about him because he didn’t want him forgotten.  I hope you’re right and he’s alive, but…” Greg’s voice was getting rather somber, “As far as we all know he’s dead… it… makes it a bit hard to deal with you, or even just knowing you’re alive and not telling Mycroft.”

Sebastian had initially been happy he was invited to stay at dinner–both to be included and to keep an eye on the situation– but at this point he was thinking it was more like being included at the table with an unexploded bomb.  “He’s alive.” Sebastian cleared his throat, “Caught a glimpse of him on my last trip out of the country.”

Jim sighed and looked over at Greg, “He’s alive; Mycroft knows that; I’m rather shocked they haven’t told anyone by now, in fact.”

“Why did he fake his death, then–for that matter why did you?”

“hmm? Oh I told him I had snipers ready to shoot his friends if he didn’t; then I supposedly killed myself to keep him from forcing me to call them off.” Jim waved a fork, “I have no idea why they’ve kept it dark for this long, but that’s their game, not mine.”

Greg stared at him for a while, “you… had…snipers…” his eyes tracked sideways at Sebastian.

“Not me, mate–I was working on getting him out of there in one piece and getting the fake body in place.” Sebastian held up a hand, “my job was making sure none of Holmes’ snipers decided to put a round into the boss on general principals even if they thought he was dead.”

“Wait, MYCROFT’S snipers?”

Jim was back to eating, “Of course… ready to kill me if his baby brother couldn’t get me to back down… maybe if he could–dunno, wasn’t taking chances on it.”

Greg could scarcely make heads or tails of it and ended up eating the rest of his meal in silence. When Jim sent Sebastian in to get the dessert, Greg asked, “One of those snipers on me?”

“Supposedly–it would have looked odd if I had said  there wasn’t.”

“John, obviously…”

“Obviously,” Jim rolled his eyes. “I told him ‘everybody’ and then listed you, Watson, and his landlady.”

“Mrs. HUDSON?!” Greg stared at him, “the rest of us are at least combatants of some kind, what does SHE have to do with it?!”

“He liked her?” Jim stared at Greg for a while as Sebastian put the pudding down as if the table was booby trapped.  “Right…” he sighed, “That matters to you…”

“Are… you …” Greg pinched the bridge of his nose and counted to ten– _God this was like dealing with him, if…_ the tension slowly bled out of him, “Right: Sherlock without the brakes…”

Sebastian stared at him as if he’d gone mad, but Jim just laughed, “I suppose so.”

“I assume, since you bothered to save my life, that I was never really targeted?”

“Nah… endangered species, remember?  You were scheduled for a near miss–unless one of my preferred targets was handy in which case they’d take the shot for you.”

“Are…. Are John and Mrs. Hudson safe NOW?  I mean you obviously know Sherlock isn’t dead…”

“Hmm? Oh yeah, once he jumped–or appeared to– the snipers packed up and started getting out of town before someone caught on, you know?  As long as he didn’t show back up too soon… well they would have been out of the country within a week I think.  Beats me, they probably heard I was dead within a few days.”

“They… wait; your own people think you’re dead?”

“I don’t actually have a lot of ‘my own people’, Greg.  I’m a consultant–yes like Sherlock– I hire people; I use other people.  I have some of my own trusted people– and they know I am alive– but most of the people I worked with?  Strictly contractors.”

“But they’re safe?”

Jim raised an eyebrow, “they’re safe from ME… I’m DEAD after all, it would look kind of suspicious if I hired people now, wouldn’t it?  Now let’s get some blood drawn and I want to ask you some questions about your recovery…”

“Mycroft says no one else has a treatment.” Greg looked up and held Jim’s eyes. “but you do…”

“I do…now. You were the first success.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Jim have a chat... poor Sebastian.
> 
> (My hubby/beta reader is still out of commission, so .. please bear with my typos and punctuation. Hubby's next surgery is November 19th)

Greg was trying to process that when Sebastian choked out, “He WAS? Is that why you kept changing stuff in his IV and pulling blood?”

Greg slowly asked, “How… MUCH of a first success? I mean… how much progress had you made before?”

Jim smiled faintly, “You’re alive and you know who you are… that’s a first.”

Sebastian looked at Greg and back at Jim, “so… the other tests…”

“Were seeing if it can be replicated, and… minimizing the problems.”

Greg sat up straight suddenly. “Other tests?  You’re giving this shit to other people?”

Jim tilted his head in a confused fashion. “Obviously?”

“You can’t seriously expect me to deal with you giving this to people?!”

Sebastian cut in worriedly, “They weren’t exactly bystanders, Greg…”

“Oh hardly that. The first ones were two scientists who were working on the little test project you… discovered.” Jim smiled, “Seemed only fair.  Almost all of the test subjects have been people involved in the illicit production and testing of the drug in the first place…”

Greg looked at him across the table and slowly shook his head, “Why do you want the stuff?  Why…”

Jim answered with a thoughtful look on his face, “Because other people want it? Because they were determined to make it work, and find a way to solve the problems that kept it from being useful, which means eventually it WILL be used…”

“It had been shelved…”

“It was,” Jim nodded. “And then someone dusted it off and thought they could make it work–and you saw the results.”

“I need an honest answer, even if I don’t like it.”

Jim looked at him, “Ask me again.”

“I want you to tell me the truth, even if you are sure I won’t like it.”

Sebastian was fairly certain nothing good was ever going to come out of this…

“I will either tell you the truth, Greg, or tell you I can’t answer you.”

“Fair.” Greg nodded slowly, “Did YOU get the project unshelved?  Get someone interested in it again?”

“No.”

Greg blinked, “No?”

“No.” Jim shook his head, “But when  the military  people were trying to hunt up  some off the books development and testing  facilities I heard about it– I got some of my people worked into the project and slipping me reports, but no… I didn’t start it.”

Greg slowly relaxed. “You… weren’t involved in … my cases.”

“If I was going to select who to test it on, I wouldn’t have picked those kids.” Jim looked at him flatly, “In addition to the reasons you know, they make lousy damn test subjects with the other drugs and the malnutrition.” Jim sat back, “Probably one of the reasons they were having such poor progress, and… honestly? Why you pulled through.”

Greg felt like an idiot, “right…” he muttered, “They were junkies, and street whores…”

“In poor health, with who knows what in their veins and immune systems overloaded already…” Jim nodded. “You, on the other hand?  Maybe a few too many beers and your diet could use work I admit, but… you were basically healthy when they dosed you up.”

“So… you have a treatment now… does that make it… useful?”

Jim was drumming his fingers in a staccato pattern, “Sort of?  There are other drugs that make people suggestable with FAR fewer side effects: the amnesia… well… I suppose it could be useful?” Jim shrugged, “it’s… let’s just say it’s potentially useful, as opposed to a waste of time and resources which it was before.”

“I think it’s a bad idea.”

“Greg, face facts… they already shelved it, and then tried again… and do you honestly think it was EVER going to stop there?”

He could feel the cold certainty in his stomach as he sighed, “It wasn’t, was it…”

Sebastian cleared his throat, “Speaking as ex-military… no. Once people get determined about it, or it looks useful for handling enemy agents, it’s always at least possible that someone will try again.”

“They were willing to go to testing on civilians illegally, Greg,” Jim waved a hand; “they weren’t going to stop.  Of course now they have the problem that you exist… you got dosed and survived.” Jim sighed, “I’ve set them back, by getting rid of so many of the people working on it, but…”

“I…” Greg remembered Mycroft and the military doctor who tried to kill him insisting that he knew loose ends had to be removed…  he remembered Jim telling him about private dungeons and people disappearing.  “Can… is there someplace I can lie down, or …”

“Your old room is still available, although we redecorated. Tiger? Help him get settled.”

“I’m not going anywhere, but can you not lock me in?”

“I did want to talk to you about that,” Jim nodded, “leave the door open, Tiger.”

Sebastian came back shortly to find Jim leaning back in his chair, staring at nothing much. “He was your first success? Really?”

“Mmm-Hmm.” Jim waved at a chair, “Sit down and ask Tiger; I can smell brain cells burning from here.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me how you two met?”

“No.”

Sebastian muttered “of course not” and then Jim continued slowly, “It was a long time ago. Greg was still working undercover, and he ended up helping me even though it risked his life, because he’s an HONEST cop.  That’s all you need to know.”

“Oh.” _Well that was something…_ “So…what are you doing with that drug?”

Jim flashed him that sly smile, “Honestly? I have no idea, yet.”

“What?”

“Someone else is going to have it, Sebastian–so I need an antidote; other people think it’s a useful tool–so I want it first, and better.  It does seem like it should be useful, but I was mostly working on it as a countering measure–I don’t like the Iceman, or anyone, having a weapon I can’t counter.”

“That… makes sense.” Sebastian considered, “We just had the time-table get sped up because of Greg, right?”

“Correct.” Jim’s chatty mood evaporated, and he turned back to his computer, “Clean up and get me the Bradley file… and get set up to draw blood.”

…

Greg hadn’t intended to doze off, but he had, and when he woke up he smelled coffee and food and followed his nose back out.

Sebastian was cleaning a large selection of ‘I am going to pretend I did not see that’ guns, and Jim was snarling at a computer and drinking coffee from that Disney Villain mug.

“So other than the guns I totally do not see all over that table…” Greg coughed, “I’m sorry I dozed off, but I woke up and smelled food and coffee.”

Jim looked up, looked over at the table, “oh… yeah, guns… Tiger, we’ll eat in the other room.”

“I can have these back together in a few–”

“Yeah but then I smell gun oil all through dinner.” Jim wrinkled his nose, “It interferes with the flavor.”

Sebastian grinned, “In my opinion it improves it.”

Jim snorted and shut down the computer. “Come on, Greg.”

Greg paused, waiting for Sebastian: Sebastian looked up and cleared his throat, “I don’t normally–”

“Either finish up and join us or leave it and join us.” Jim said abruptly and walked away.

“…yes…sir?”

Greg followed into the kitchen that had a lovely island with food set out, and chairs, watching Sebastian following uncertainly.  He’d seemed uncertain when they had a meal before… “You don’t normally eat together?”

“Err…no.”

“Sebastian is my bodyguard and chief sniper–chief of staff really,” Jim sat down  and waved at the take out containers, “but… I don’t socialize, usually… not like that.”

Greg looked pained, and smiled faintly, “Right… never ask for anything, never trust anyone, never let anyone get close…”

Jim stopped and stared at him, and Sebastian asked, “Just HOW well did you two know each other?  You… uh… I mean that’s…”

“Not unusual.” Greg said quietly. “Known a lot of people with the same rules for life–whether they think about it or not.”

Jim growled faintly and dug into his food: Sebastian shut up and ate quietly and tried to pretend he wasn’t at all curious.

After dinner, or breakfast, or whenever it was, Greg pointed out, “My sense of time is all kinds of messed up, but… I did tell Mycroft  to give me twenty four hours before he started looking…”

“It wasn’t that long before he started… I think it’s because we broke the cameras at the corner the cabbie was supposed to let you off…” Jim muttered.

“Then…I’m guessing you should get your blood test, and… we should talk about whatever we need to talk about… and then I should get back.”

Jim nodded, “Sebastian? You get the blood drawn, and run it to the labs–Greg and I will finish up while you do that and then you can take him back.”

~

“Crime must pay pretty well…” Greg said finally, after Sebastian had left and Jim seemed disinclined to start any conversations.

Jim cracked a smile, “If you do it right–insider trading mostly.”

Greg blinked, “Seriously?”

“I took most of the money I ever made from ‘regular crime’ and invested it.  I have a multi-national corporation–or three– and when the money keeps moving often enough no one asks too much.” Jim shrugged, “If they ever do put you out to pasture, or you want to make real money, there are a number of very legitimate completely above board jobs you could have for asking.”

“I… consider it unlikely? But thanks…” Greg hesitated and then asked, “So why do you keep Sebastian at arm’s length? You obviously trust him enough to have your back…”

“I trust him too much as it is–letting him get any closer would cloud my judgement.” Jim grumbled.

Greg snorted, “He’d stop hesitating so much if you told him how you–”

Jim cut him off. “Did you want to talk about my bodyguard or…?”

“I’m supposed to try to find out how involved you were in the project.”

“And you did.”

“And Mycroft keeps saying he’d probably be able to pardon my contacts if they wanted to–”

Jim started cackling, “Well then you’ve done a good job keeping me a secret…”

“… yeah I told him I doubted you would trust him and I doubted it would work out…” Greg coughed a bit and waited for Jim to stop laughing. 

Eventually he wiped his eyes and waved at Greg, “Do go on…”

“I suspect Mycroft would like the treatment, or at least the treatment notes…”

“No.”

Greg nodded, “Yeah I figured as much but I had to ask… ok, so for myself…am I going to stop sleeping so much?  I feel almost back to normal but I fall asleep in the middle of things and… I probably sleep most of the day away if I’m not careful.”

“We’re still trying to work out a better treatment, Greg…” Jim sounded sincere, and glanced down at his phone before looking back up, “Yeah, it’s a side effect–one you only get from not administering the correct treatment right away.  I’m… sorry about that, but we didn’t HAVE the correct treatment.”

“Hey… I’m grateful to be alive, really.” Greg nodded, “Do you think it will… go away? Or you can fix it?”

“Maybe… and maybe.” Jim nodded toward the door, “We’ll compare your blood tests to some of the others… I’d REALLY like to get you into an MRI.” Jim considered, “Did Mycroft have a complete brain scan done?”

“If I had an MRI… well…” Greg considered, “It would have been after I got out of the hospital and moved in to Mycroft’s house… but... some days kind of…” he shrugged, “I lost a few days here and there? I suppose it’s possible I could have slept right through one?  But he never mentioned one…”

Jim nodded and typed into his phone, after a short while there was a chime of an incoming text and he glanced down, “I’m going to read you off a list of tests my people would like to have: you get Mycroft to run them, and get the results… if you can get me a copy, it will help.”

“You’ll have to work out how to get them handed off…”

Jim waved a hand, “Easy–if you cooperate.”  Jim hesitated, “There… okay I admit it: I had a few questions of my own, about ancient history… trade?”

Greg grinned, “Okay, me first: how did you end up in that position?”

“Complicated answer, but the simple form?” Jim considered. “I was, in fact, working, but I was also using that to get information, contacts, and… to start removing a few people in my way.” Jim looked up, “they almost caught me a few times, and I got away… and then one time I didn’t.  They tried to beat answers out of me, and tried to drug answers out of me, and then… I don’t know, maybe the big boss figured  the information wasn’t worth that much, because they dragged me up to…”

“Be handed around before they shot you.” Greg nodded, “I couldn’t… I couldn’t just stand by and let that happen.”

Jim nodded slowly, “An honest cop and an honest Englishman–all in one.” He shook his head and grinned, “My turn: why didn’t you get a piece before you let me go?”

Greg’s eyes almost popped out of his head, “No!  God… No… Look, I don’t think I’m an angel, but… of all the things I ever was a deliberate rapist was never one of them.”

Jim cocked his head, “An interesting specification…”

“I was a jackass when I was a teen–and a bit after– and … well I ran with a wild bunch and we drank too much and egged each other on… I’m pretty sure that a few girls I had were too drunk to really consent.”

Jim snorted, “If you were any more pure at heart Greg you’d sprout wings… So if you’d run into me later?”

Greg shook his head, “I’d been in a position of power over you and as a cop… well… no.  I’ve had offers before and… you street kids… it’s all you know, and I won’t take advantage of that.”

Jim sat back and shook his head, “Your turn, ‘Gabriel’.”

Greg smiled, “Now that reminds me of Sherlock–him never getting my name right… Okay, How did you get mixed up with Sherlock? I never got the details…”

“Oh?” Jim blinked at him, “Oh that’s simple: I killed Carl Powers–kept the shoes as a trophy because the bastard was so proud of them– and Sherlock was the only one who ever suspected.  There I was, free and clear, and this kid was pestering the police that it was a murder and to look for his shoes!”  Jim shook his head, “Mycroft pulled him off as far as I could tell–that’s the first time I saw Mycroft too.  I had… a lot of life keep me busy, and the next time I even heard about him was…” he trailed off, looked at Greg and then shrugged.

“One of my people sold him drugs.  He was in college, already addicted–you don’t go looking for the hard stuff out of nowhere–and the name stood out.”

“Please tell me you don’t still deal drugs?” Greg winced, “and… Sherlock’s finally getting clean and staying clean…”

“As I said, I consult.  There are some drug cartels that hire me to consult, but no… I don’t get that close to it anymore.”  Jim sighed and looked a bit melancholy, “my turn, and I changed my mind on the question…”

“Go on?”

“Did you ever? With Sherlock? He’s pretty…”

“No!” Greg rubbed his forehead, “You kids and your obsession with sex…”

“You are NOT straight…”

“No, I’m bi… and that’s irrelevant. Look, I met Sherlock when he was a junkie, so even if he wanted to? That would be taking advantage, and sober he never indicated any interest–in anyone.” Greg considered, “Even sober I wouldn’t have, I don’t think… too much power imbalance: I’d feel like he was doing it to get a case… it would be like a teacher with a student or something.”

Jim rather exaggeratedly looked at Greg’s back, “Do the wings fold up? Or what…”

“You need a relationship with someone who understands about the abuse background… and you need counseling–I’m serious.”

Jim snickered, “Greg, honey… I can run rings around any therapist you throw me at.”

“You have to work at it…”

“Besides, can you just imagine trying to find a therapist in England? With Mycroft looking at everything?” Jim muttered, “He is SUCH a voyeur.”

Greg tried to not ask, but, “Okay, I’ll bite: why do you think he’s a voyeur?”

“You know he can look through most of the cameras in London?”

“I got that from John, yeah.”

“Do you know how often he came down to interrogation and just WATCHED me?  Plus he had the cameras on me the entire time…”

“You’re serious, he… interrogated you? You don’t mean just questioned…”

“Greg, I mean just what I said: he can disappear people better than I can.  There’s a nice set of cells completely off the record just outside of London proper, and its cold and the lights are always on–or off– and if I hadn’t had fail-safes they couldn’t afford to set off I wouldn’t have walked out in one piece.”

“That’s… that’s wrong.” Greg rubbed his forehead, “There are procedures, safe guards, laws…”

“None of which means boo if the British Government says the words ‘suspected terrorist’.” Jim shrugged.

“That should never happen.” Greg’s voice got firmer. “No matter what you did, or were suspected of doing.”

“Shoulda, woulda, coulda…” Jim waved a hand, “I deal in reality, and in reality if Mycroft gets his hands on me again, I’m a dead man–probably slowly.  I would have just had him shot–Tiger could do it– but you have no idea what that would do to my investments.”

“What?  I don’t understand?”

“If Mycroft got assassinated, stock prices would tumble and at least three wars I don’t want would start up again.” Jim said firmly, “so I faked my death and he stopped looking for me: simple, if a bit boring.”

“Boring…” Greg stared at him, “You sound JUST like Sherlock…”

“No I don’t.” Jim laughed and then in a perfect mimic of Sherlock’s intonation, “BO-ring… really Gerald, there must be a better murder somewhere?”

“Ouch…”

At that point the door opened and Sebastian came in, “Sir? All done…”

“Take Greg back to the Icebox,” Jim nodded at Greg, “Get me those tests: I’ll be working on it anyway, but that will help.”

“Thanks…” Greg stood up and walked with Sebastian toward the door. “And Jim?”

“Yes?”

He paused at the door, “You’re judgement is already clouded: all you’re doing is hurting yourself.” 

Greg and Sebastian both heard him yell, “If I want your advice I’ll read your entrails!” as the door swung shut.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg talks to Mycroft  
> (Recap, and considerations)

Mycroft had gritted his teeth, sat on his hands, and *not looked* for as long as he could… and then when he did look Greg had vanished.

He had his hand on the phone to call in every resource…and hesitated. Greg had asked for twenty four hours… but…  Mycroft tried other cameras and nothing showed anything but normal traffic… he drummed his fingers in uncharacteristic indecision before activating the tracer.

He told himself it was entirely justified…

And was startled to find it in a taxi?  He checked other cameras– _the same taxi? They had… simply not stopped?_   But the taxi was picking other fares up… and dropping them off… and the windows were too opaque…

He tried to go back to work as if nothing was wrong.

When the watch ended up at the end of shift at the taxi company he had one of his people call… why yes, a gentleman had left the watch in one of the cabs…

Mycroft groaned, “He’s spent entirely too much time with my brother.”

“Ditched the tracer?” his PA looked up from her work.

“Left it in the cab and somehow vanished.”

“Sounds like Sherlock…” she looked sympathetic, “He did say he thought it would be a lot of time, didn’t he?”

“Losing the trail, and then... yes.”

“And his friend certainly could have done him harm before.” She said very practically.

Mycroft tried to get back to work, but he kept… worrying.

…

It was rather early the next morning when his alerts informed him that someone was at his door… he looked down at the cameras and: _Greg, he looks well, a bit rumpled–slept in some of his clothing._ Mycroft came down trying to look unconcerned.

“Greg, good to see you back–ah, successful contact then?”

“Mycroft.” Greg nodded and then that same easy smile, “How long did you hold off before you looked?”

“… Two hours.” He admitted.

Greg shook his head, “I told you… I didn’t even get to see them until well after that.”

Mycroft checked him for tracers–none– and ushered him in to eat. “You slept at least…”

“Unfortunately,” Greg sighed, “Still sleeping far too much–I did ask them about that… they…” he chewed his lip, “Mycroft… I know–I KNOW– that this has got to be hard on you, but… it’s hard on all of us.  It’s bad for them, because I’m a cop and now MI5, 6, and who knows else is involved…”

“Did they answer any of the questions?”

“Quite a few, and I think honestly… and… they want some medical test results… which means having you get them done, and me getting them the results.”

“I’m not entirely comfortable–”

“Its… much more complicated than I ever expected.”

“I can tell…” Mycroft could tell, _he was trying very hard not to give any confidences away, but there were things he considered important and wanted to tell me…_ Mycroft put on his best persuasive and reasonable tone: “This is unrecorded, and… I will try to discuss with you before I take any action that might get close to them–will that help?”

Greg looked down at the food, “I was… very concerned about whether they were involved with … reactivating the shelved project.” He looked up and Mycroft nodded encouragingly.  “They weren’t involved until AFTER it was leaked and restarted… but they were involved in getting some of the… medical and chemistry side set up?  They didn’t know about the cases I was investigating…”

Greg met his eyes– _pain, memory, sympathy, all under the hard decisions of a policeman_ – “This is in extreme confidence, Mycroft.”  Mycroft gave him his most sympathetic look–usually practiced and false, but not entirely so this time.

Greg’s voice was quiet, “They were a street kid, and… working the streets when I met them.  He… said he wouldn’t have used  junkies and whores for test subjects, partly because that could have been him… and partly because he knows just how contaminated the test results would be… he thought I lived longer to start with because…”

Mycroft nodded slowly, “You don’t have addictions; you don’t have prior drugs or illnesses damaging your health…”

“As he said, just a bad diet and too much to drink maybe…” Greg was toying with his food and Mycroft had to nudge him to eat more.

“Mycroft… I was the first success.”

“…what?”

“I… He didn’t have a treatment for it–no one did.  He found me in the alley. I apparently… I made noise and he looked… and the two of them got me … Narcan apparently, and taken to the hospital…”

Mycroft could scarcely breathe.  ‘Narcan and the hospital’ certainly had nothing to do with his recovery–his immediate survival perhaps– but despite the overwhelming urge to shake the man and tell him to get to the point he  forced himself to be quiet and listen.

“They had someone keeping an eye on me, and… when I had amnesia he realized what I’d been dosed with… but I was the first success…”

“You said first.”  Mycroft kept his voice calm.

“Apparently the two scientists that… were part of testing it on the junkies…”

“Two scientists were missing–at least– when we raided the facilities.”

“He said he tested the treatment protocol that they invented for me on some of the people from the facility–including them… they… he… I guess he has a treatment now… my sleeping all the time happens if you don’t get the treatment immediately–if it’s delayed.”

“This is… extremely alarming, to say the least.” He kept his voice calm but internally Mycroft was coming as close as he ever did to panic.

Greg took a deep breath, “Yeah, I know.”

“Do you know what he plans on doing with this?”

“I… don’t think he has any plans.”

Mycroft stared at the man– _no, he wasn’t stupid, but that didn’t make sense_. “Explain?”

“He and T… they both explained that once a project like that gets… un-shelved?  People keep trying.  That it was going to be out there–even if it’s not really… he said there were better and safer and… generally more useful drugs.”

“True.”

“But that it was GOING to be developed… because they were already trying…” Greg sighed, “So he wanted to know how to treat it… and I’m guessing he doesn’t like anyone else having a weapon he doesn’t have.”

Mycroft forced himself to look at it logically:  _IF what his contact said was true, he was involved in it after the project was re-started; they were logically going to develop it without him; therefore, yes, a sufficiently astute fellow would certainly want to be  up to date on it…_ “Now that he has the only working treatment, and the drug?”

“I don’t think he … I don’t think he thought the drug was that useful.  He sounded… annoyed and dismissive.” Greg sighed, “He said the amnesia might be useful but… he really sounded like he was half-hearted at best.  He was just sure that someone else was going to use it…”

“And he wants more tests on you?”

“To see if it lines up with anything they have, I guess, and see if they can… try to keep me from being so sleepy?  I slept through a lot when I went there.”

Mycroft resolved to go through his clothing with a microscope if need be for clues.

“I am…” Mycroft took a deep breath, “Would it be possible for them to work WITH me, or my department on this?  If information has gotten out about the drug… we’d rather like a treatment as well.”

“I doubt it…” Greg had worry lines and looked tired–the kind of tired that comes from too much responsibility and stress.

“Please ask them… I can’t be too unhappy they developed a treatment, but… I am concerned that that will simply encourage them to use the drug… or sell the antidote.”

“I’m… kind of concerned about it myself.” Greg smiled tiredly. “I told you more than I planned… but…they weren’t sitting there with all the answers… apparently I was a Guinea Pig out of desperation–trying to keep me alive… its…”  he took a deep breath and looked at Mycroft with uncharacteristic seriousness, “some street kids have… a sense of honor, and ethics… that is a bit hard to understand unless you deal with them–a lot of people might say they don’t have any, but they do… just… not… ours?”

Mycroft nodded slowly, “I’ll take your word for it…”

“This was a kid that I tried to help–tried to save his life– and… he found a way to get out of there WITHOUT blowing my cover…”

Mycroft sat up as the background check and his career review came up in his mental files. “There was a drugged rape victim–you described as an underage prostitute and thief– in your first major undercover case…”

Greg smiled wryly, “Of course you have that in your head, I wasn’t even sure it was in my files anymore…”

“Drugged…” Mycroft said quietly, “And brought up to be raped… you said you spoke to him briefly after getting him in private.  Your report indicated he was responsible for your hospitalization and yet you insisted on trying to find and help him…”

“Getting him out any way I knew of would have blown my cover,” Greg reached a hand up and touched his shirt over where Mycroft has seen an old scar, “but I couldn’t leave him there. His last words to me–after marveling about an honest cop– were, ‘You’ll get to keep your cover–sorry about the scar.’ And then he bit me, and then he hit me against the bed frame–hard.”  Greg slowly undid his shirt a bit and pulled it aside; revealing the scar over his collar bone–Mycroft had seen it but had never imagined it was caused by human teeth.

“Apparently he had a reputation for being a vicious bastard, and they had beaten him and drugged him to make him manageable… he wasn’t manageable, obviously.” Greg said it dryly, and smiled. “I spent quite a bit of time trying to find him… only heard bits and pieces from street contacts: he had been working the streets, and he’d vanished–presumed dead.”

“And now he’s… running a chemical and medical lab?”

“He… told me he had been involved in drugs; for a while–street drugs– and moved… away from that.” Greg was looking more and more tired.   _He’s thinking about Sherlock, of course, and how they met._

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up and put to bed.”

Greg sleepwalked through the shower and didn’t notice as Mycroft put his clothes aside to be examined.  After he was asleep Mycroft sat down in his study and considered…

Greg was obviously still a bit suggestable… of course as Mycroft very well knew: he could be rather persuasive, as could Sherlock when he wanted something; it could be more long years of habit than the drug.

Going over the records in his mind: the ‘street kid’ had been a vicious newcomer in the gangs in that city, having come up from working the streets;  he had been personally responsible for killing a few members of the gang Greg was investigating during his escape, and  had indeed vanished afterwards.  Mycroft considered: with a known policeman who would recognize him, as well as the gang hunting him, he likely simply moved to another city.

But nothing in the investigation at the time–the entirely inadequate investigation– gave any reason at all why the young man would have SPARED an undercover policeman.

Greg’s comment: ‘he said an honest cop the way someone else might say a unicorn’ gave one clue...

And decades later, that boy–who by his own statements had worked his way up in the drug trade, and was involved in  the laboratory facilities that the experimental development had used– recognized Greg… and cared enough to risk everything.

It seemed unlikely in the extreme.

Mycroft sat for a while considering. It was probably true–people behaved in illogical fashions, and Greg was unlikely to have been fooled over his identity… for that matter reaching that far back into his past to **create** a false past connection was far less likely than it being the actual reason his contact had acted on his behalf.

So it didn’t make much sense, but was likely true.

Which meant that his contact held some concepts of debt, and… respect? For an honest policeman?  Peculiar… but possible if the man was an idealist at heart–someone who had had his trust and faith shattered, early, but had found a very few people he respected–one of them Greg.

Of course individuals with such a violent and common background rarely ended up in anything even approximating high end drug manufacture.  If he was honest, that was something Sherlock would have been more likely to become involved in.

As he was on his own way to bed–after dealing with a few minor problems in various parts of the world– _Greg seemed to think his contact knew about me_ … Mycroft hesitated part way through his usual ritual of brushing his teeth and hard to start over.

_He was in contact with the military leaks, directly or indirectly, and had helped them set up their laboratories?  Someone might have known I exist… and informed him._

That… was worrisome.

Mycroft didn’t sleep well that night.

~

“Now that we’re on the plane can you tell me why we’re moving out of the country?” Sebastian rubbed at his eyes and had yet another cup of coffee.

“Mycroft.” Muttered Jim, doing God knows what on his phone.

“You think Greg will tell him anything?”

“No, well nothing deliberately anyway, but Greg is more than slightly naïve–especially about Holmeses– and he’ll end up with too much.”

“I can still shoot him–Mycroft I mean” Sebastian added hurriedly.

“Maybe someday, Tiger, but right now he just fixed a problem in Bangladesh that was costing me money.”  He then muttered not quite under his breath, “Besides… Sherlock’s an idiot.”

“I thought he was brilliant?”

“He’s extraordinary, Sebie,” Jim sniffed, “He’s brilliant AND he’s an idiot.”

“…right…”

Sebastian tried to catch a nap on the plane, and hoped someone would tell him what was going on at some point.

 


End file.
